


Being Sherlock

by sherlockholmeslives



Category: Being Human (UK), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Werewolf, vampire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-10-18
Packaged: 2017-12-03 08:05:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 29,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockholmeslives/pseuds/sherlockholmeslives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Supernatural AU wherein Sherlock is a vampire, and John is a werewolf. Set in the Being Human universe (season 1). The original trio from Being Human also make several appearances, due in part to Sherlock's history with John Mitchell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Episode One.  
\---  
It had been a long night. Thankfully, also an immensely satisfying one. Arriving home in the brightness of the early summer morning was less than pleasant, but the remaining euphoria of the night before made it more than tolerable.   
  
She was beautiful, the girl last night. The clan had chosen well. Pre-paid hotel room as always, pretty young thing with bright green eyes and orange hair. Her accent amused him, and his charm wooed her effortlessly. The kill had been divine, and the blood was soaking into the mattress by the time the clock struck three. One quick text and the cleanup crew was on its way - he only had one of these a month, set up, effortless, ‘sponsored’ nights out courtesy of his brother, and enjoyed making the very most of it. With a glance back at the drained and quickly cooling woman on the bed, Sherlock made his way to the bathroom, showering with reluctance to clean her remnants from his body.   
  
Such a waste.  
  
Once he was done, just before the clean-up crew were due to arrive, he dressed in the clean clothes he’d brought for himself, leaving the others on the bed to be incinerated along with the rest of the evidence of his jolly night out. At six precisely, the suits arrived with their gloves and heavy plastic bags, ignoring him completely as they set about their work, and he walked between them and out of the door, using the time in the elevator back to the ground floor to reassume his public persona.   
  
After a meandering walk home, Sherlock arrived at the flat, amused slightly to hear the bedroom door upstairs slam closed in a hurry as he shut the front door.   
  
“John? Is everything alright up there?”  
  
“Fine.” Came a blunt call from upstairs.   
  
John had only just made it back, stowing himself away in his bedroom in hopes of grabbing a shower before Sherlock came home, quickly dashed. Hurriedly, he moved away from the door, dropped his duffle bag on the bed and began to pull his muddied jumper over his head in a mad flurry, like it was on fire. It stank, he stank, and now he would have to use the same old excuse that Harry’s shower was not working. One lie to cover another, that he was visiting his sister in Aldershot, as he did every month. Or so he said. There were flaws, such as there being no direct bus to Aldershot - but Sherlock never asked, so John never covered his tracks.  
  
He found a pack of emergency wet wipes in his drawers, mopped himself down as best he could, and changed into clean clothes. His clothes, his stinking clothes, lay in a rumpled heap in the corner of the room, to be seen to later.  
  
John leant back and took a moment to stretch, groaning quietly as he felt his every bone ache, still recovering. It usually took a day or two for things to settle, before the countdown started all over again.  
  
He left the bedroom, knowing he would have to greet Sherlock timely, else risk his response sounding suspiciously blunt. Arriving downstairs, he entered through the kitchen. “Tea?” He loudly asked, while taking their respective cups out of the drying rack. As he did, he stopped for a moment, as a rather unpleasant scent hit his nose; sharp, tangy. Like someone had shoved his face into a heap of warm copper coins.  
  
“What’s that look for?” Sherlock asked, cocking his head slightly to one side with a bemused expression on his face.   
  
John didn’t answer quickly, his face held in a faint grimace. He wasn’t altogether sure; his senses were still finely tuned, thus very sensitive. It could well have been anything. Briefly shaking it off, he continued with the tea making. “I’m not doing a ‘look’,” he responded, with a glint of humour. As he poured and stirred, he quite happily moved the conversation along. “Good night for you, then?”  
  
“Not bad,” Sherlock replied, still eyeing John curiously. “And you were ‘doing a look’. To be fair, quite an undeserved one. You’re the one who came home stinking of wet dog and grass; at least I had the decency not to mention that.” He smirked slightly, leaning against the kitchen counter whilst he waited for his tea.  
  
Not finding any humour in the complaint, John stopped again and stared, intensely, down at the kitchen counter. After a moment, he removed the spoon from Sherlock’s mug and quietly responded, “Yeah, well. Harry’s shower is on the blink again. I’ll clean up in a bit.” He lifted his own tea and moved away, to the table, leaving Sherlock to pick up his own.  
  
“Strange, how her shower seems to break every 28 days...” Sherlock mused, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He wandered over eventually, picking up his mug and blowing gently on the tea to cool it before following John over to the table. “So, Harry has a dog now, does she?”  
  
Seating himself, John sighed and shook his head with annoyance. “I don’t know what you’re getting at. Since when were you so bothered about what went on in my sister’s house?”  
  
“Since you started bringing dog-smell home. I’d underestimated how much of it clings around... afterwards.” He waved one hand dismissively at the minor annoyance, sipping at his tea before frowning at it for being too hot.  
  
“Sorry?” John squinted at him, agitation rising.  
  
‘You’ve been avoiding the subject; I’m trying to be tactful.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, letting out a soft sigh. “John, you honestly thought I didn’t know? We can tell your kind a mile away.”  
  
At that point, John’s stare had fallen down to the cup between his hands; staring with extreme seriousness as Sherlock spoke, and further insinuated. John would not confirm, but at the same time, he could not abandon the conversation. “My kind.” He echoed, not a question.  
  
“Werewolves, John. You didn’t hit your head last night, did you?”  
  
John looked up at him, that same grave intensity etched into every line on his face. “Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes again, leaning back against the chair. “Vampires can tell lycans from humans on sight, John. Call it ‘ridiculous’ all you want, but I’ll warn you it’s getting tiring already.”  
  
Before John could further deny all claims, his eyes glinted with alarm, and his mouth began to shake. “Vampires? Who said anything about .. vampires?”  
  
With a dramatic sigh, Sherlock stood, taking his mug of tea in one hand. “You enjoy your denial-slash-existential-crisis; I’m going to get some sleep.” With another downward glance at John, he paused, then started to walk out of the kitchen.  
  
“No, wait.” John jumped up from his chair, voice demanding. Unable to hide his instinctive emotional reaction, and the wake of the transformation having a tendency to heighten aggression as well as sense, he wasn’t about to let Sherlock leave. “You were talking about vampires, Sherlock.” He walked up to Sherlock, clearly on edge. “Is that you, then? The blood that I could smell a minute ago, was that you?”  
  
Sherlock took a slow breath, leaning over to put the mug back on the table before speaking. “Deep breaths, John.” He stood quietly for a moment, giving John a chance to relax a little, or at least to try to stop him becoming too much more agitated. “Technically no, it wasn’t me. It was... Carilyn, or Canbeth or... well, something along those lines. Names tend to get forgotten rather quickly. Now, if you’re talking about the vampire in question, then yes, that would be me.” He stood up straighter, as if the confirmation demanded proper posture.  
  
John stood very still, and very quiet. Though aware of the condescending nature of the command, he knew he had to calm down, quickly, else risk mental fatigue. His eyes remained glued to Sherlock, his chest constricting as he managed to make a mental picture from the vague descriptors. He dealt a shudder, “You’re a vampire.” It was more for self confirmation, if anything. Surprisingly, he wasn’t shocked that such creatures existed.   
  
He glanced up to Sherlock, giving him a long and tight-lipped look. “I’m a .. yeah.” He nodded, completing the exchange.  
  
“I believe that’s what I just said, yes.” Sherlock cocked his head again, looking at John with genuine curiosity. “Why is that such a shock to you? You can’t honestly... Oh. You didn’t know. Hm.”  
  
John shot his look up at him again. “That you’re a vampire? No, can’t say I did.”  
  
“I meant, you didn’t know that we existed at all. That level of shock was far more than just ‘me’ personally. You didn’t think you were the only supernatural beings on the planet, did you?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I meant, you didn’t know that we existed at all. That level of shock was far more than just ‘me’ personally. You didn’t think you were the only supernatural beings on the planet, did you?”

John didn’t confirm it, he didn’t need to. He ducked his head under Sherlock’s accusing glare, and chose his words carefully. “That too.” He uttered, suddenly reflective. He dithered on the spot, trying to decide what exactly he had thought. Since the beginning, there had only been the wolf. No word of anything else, just the wolf.  
  
“I’ve never really talked about it. The possibility of other .. things.” He admitted.  
  
“Vampires, werewolves, ghosts. I’ve heard rumours of zombies but that’s yet to be confirmed. Witches, but that’s more cultural than supernatural to my knowledge.” Sherlock slowly made his way back to his chair, sitting down again. “What do you know, then?”  
  
“Lay it on thick, why don’t you.” John muttered under his breath, slowly following but not sitting back down himself. He tensed briefly at the question, then stared pensively into the distance. His library of knowledge was small, obviously. He barely knew much about his own condition, save for how to contain it. “The only other I knew was my dad. I got ‘it’ from him.”  
  
Sherlock ignored the initial comment, focusing instead on the eventual reveal that followed. Sherlock’s eyebrows drew together, a different expression of confusion appearing in his gaze. “Your father did it?”  
  
Tossing a mingled, solemn movement of his head, John responded with a sigh, that had long since accepted these grim facts, “If you mean ‘passed it down the bloodline’, then yeah.”  
  
“Oh,” Sherlock said, slightly startled but recovering quickly. “Genetic infection. That’s comparatively rare. Did he... not know yet, or...?”  
  
“No idea.” That much was true, it was never talked about. John simply assumed it was a risk his father thought was worth taking. He tried to talk to his mother about it a few times, when he was young, but she would always either clamp up on him or continue in blissful ignorance. “Harry had a lucky escape. Dad... he died years ago. Wandered into an Essex shopping centre and the police gunned him down.”  
  
He stopped in a moment of reflection, then let out a nasal sigh and picked up his tea from the table.  
  
“I’m assuming on a full moon, else it would have been all over the news. And your mother, she was human. Knew about him, obviously. Harry won the genetic lottery, you weren’t so lucky. I’ve never... I have to admit, I’ve never heard of successful coupling between a lycan and a human. It’s theorised to have happened before, but I’ve never actually seen proof prior to now.” Sherlock leaned back against the chair, contemplative, storing the new data appropriately.  
  
“Oh, and condolences for your father.”  
  
John nodded where Sherlock was correct, drumming his fingers on the hard exterior of the mug and keeping his head somewhat hung, his overall attitude and position glum and thoughtful. Considering the sombre subject matter. “Thanks.” He spoke, looking to him from across the kitchen.  
  
He then gave a small, humourless smile. With a grim comment attached. “Just trying to make sure same thing doesn’t happen to me now.”  
  
“Stay out of shopping centres, then. Given how much forestry there is within a reasonably short drive, it shouldn’t be too difficult. It was an immensely poor judgement call on your father’s part, to risk transforming so close to the city centre.”  
  
“Suppose so, yeah.” John shrugged, though not entirely the resolution he had come to. Another thing that had gone unspoken was the circumstances surrounding Hamish Watson’s death. John had thought about it a lot, and pondered the very thing Sherlock had brought up. It was far too dangerous, being near an area that populated.  
  
In the end, John just decided that he must have been put in a situation that gave him no alternative. In way of conclusion, he drank the last of his tea, put the mug in the sink, then approached the seat opposite to Sherlock. He sat down.  
  
“Feels a bit odd. Actually talking about things like this.”  
  
“I suppose it does. Feels odd talking about it to a lycan, at least,” Sherlock agreed, sipping at his tea. “Do you know if your father had it genetically, like you? The idea of there being a bloodline through genetic children is quite enthralling.”  
  
John had to be a bit astonished at that comment. Sherlock was intrigued, but not in way of sympathy. Or sensitivity. “Um .. no. He was attacked, in Scotland. Killed it before it got away.” That much he knew, at least.   
  
“Ah. No bloodline, then.” Sherlock frowned slightly, letting the disappointment rest on his face for a moment before it flitted away. “I wonder if your sister has some kind of immunity. She may just have been lucky and not contracted it, but if she has a genetic anomaly which serves as a vaccine, that would be interesting indeed. Although you should probably not go telling your family history to too many people, on that note, for that reason.”  
  
John was already frowning at him. “I’m not your test subject, neither is Harry.”  
  
“I am aware of that, John,” Sherlock said, thick with irritation. “You can’t blame me for being curious. You’re the first lycan I’ve actually had a proper conversation with, and you’re interesting.”  
  
“You could have a bit more tact, Sherlock. This isn’t something I enjoy.”  
  
“Enjoyable or not, it’s interesting. But fine, we’ll discuss it later. You need that shower anyway, you reek of wet dog.” It was a little difficult to keep decades of ingrained bigotry out of his voice, and he failed to even acknowledge most of it.  
  
The constant use of ‘dog’ didn’t make John very happy. He couldn’t deny that Sherlock was right though, the stink coming off him was strong, as evidenced by the number of passengers that refused to sit near him on the rather crowded train home. He rubbed his face and gave out a big sigh, “What then?” He said, looking back to Sherlock. “We just carry on, as before?”  
  
“Don’t you want to? I see no reason to change now. Unless you’d like to explain your sister's eternally broken shower to someone new in my stead,” Sherlock said smoothly, before draining his mug of tea.  
  
Thinking for a moment, John bit the corner of his lip and shook his head to himself, arriving at the conclusion that Sherlock was, once again, right. “I like it here.” He admitted, his own vague way of stating that he would accept the circumstances. Far easier to open up to one vampire, than skulk around a handful of typical people.  
  
“Can’t say living with a vampire was on my bucket list, mind.” He added with a weak chuckle, rubbing his eye with his index finger.  
  
“And living with a werewolf wasn’t on mine. Yet here we are.”  
  
“Yeah.” John finished with a final sigh, looking down into his now-empty mug, though stayed aware of his surroundings. He listened, monitoring the atmosphere and waiting, before quietly adding, “Thanks, Sherlock. For hearing me out.”  
  
He almost added a note of sarcasm, that he still could have been a bit more sensitive about it, but decided not to. The thanks was enough.


	3. Chapter 3

The door bustled open as Sherlock laughed, playful and apparently slightly drunk as he wriggled the key out of the door of the flat, shutting it behind him as his playmate giggled, amourously nipping at his neck until he nipped her back, leading to her, equally drunk, wrapping her arms around his waist and leaning in for a kiss. After a few long moments of rather passionate kissing, Sherlock picked up John's scent, breaking the kiss just long enough to turn around and acknowledge John sitting in the couch. With a chuckle, he turned back to his date, whispering to her about heading somewhere more private. She whispered back in kind, and the pair stumbled, half-entwined, through the kitchen and into Sherlock's bedroom.    
  
Sherlock's door closed with a bang, followed by more laughter on both parts before the room fell quiet, silent for a moment before soft groans floated through the flat, murmurs and sweet nothings in a low baritone more than setting the mood.  
  
"Oh, that's..." came a breathless broken sentence from the woman who'd been brought home, before she spoke again, the suddenly frantic sound of her words cutting through the previous setting like a knife. "Ow... Ah, that--" All previous groans stopped, and her words quickly grew more anxious, ending in a yell and a plea.  
  
"AH! Fuck, stop, please, it hurts-- Aagh--"  
  
Meanwhile, downstairs, John had been attempting to ignore the all-too-clear moans and groans, flapping out his newspaper and sighing heavily. Apparently Sherlock wasn’t sleeping tonight. He continued to read, until the sounds coming from Sherlock’s bedroom became outcries, but John’s alarm infinitely rose when they turned into blatant screaming.  
  
He pulled himself to his feet, feeling his throat tighten as he hurried through the living room, then the kitchen. A split second later, he rushed forcefully into Sherlock’s bedroom, and stopped dead in his tracks.  
  
Frozen, John looked upon the scene. The woman, that Sherlock had come home with, was lying on her back on the bed, letting out smaller, strangled screams; eyes wide and face pale. Sherlock straddled her, sucking at her neck. Remaining in the doorway, John felt his heart rate skyrocket, unable to tear his eyes away.  
  
At the sound of his door bashing open, Sherlock gradually looked up, eyes black and warm blood dripping down his chin, a smattering of it dribbling down his throat. His shoulder, exposed under his half-removed shirt, bore scratch marks, from fingernails gripping at him hard enough to remove a few layers of skin. Swallowing and licking his top lip, fuelled by the feed and rather resentful that the kill was bleeding out on his mattress, rather than being consumed, Sherlock scowled at the interruption, utterly unimpressed at the look on John's face.  
  
"Vampire, John," Sherlock said lowly, not moving from his position over the woman, her muted struggles for breath filling the silence between his words. "What exactly were you expecting?"  
  
John kept his eyes on the woman. Numbed, as he slowly comprehended what he was seeing. “She’s dying.”  
  
"Again - what, exactly, were you expecting?" Sherlock kept his eyes on John for a moment longer, then sighed as his meal coughed. "Now if you don't mind, I'd like to finish this. Unless you'd like to watch..." Without waiting for a reply, Sherlock lowered his head again, sucking at the wound on the dying woman's neck, ignoring the soft mews of pain or confusion falling from her lips, her breaths becoming ever more shallow as Sherlock drank.  
  
Standing motionless and wordless, John sucked in a deep breath and screwed his eyes shut, trying to dispel the victim’s last, dying sounds. There wasn’t anything he could do for her, whatever blood Sherlock hadn’t already drank was on the bed covers. Really, just letting Sherlock finish was the kindest thing John could do.  
  
Once the feeding was brought to an end, he chanced a glance, and saw that Sherlock looked all too pleased with himself. Right away, John gave him a condemning look.  
  
Sherlock used a clean corner of the bed sheet to wipe his face, rolling his eyes at John's disapproval after blinking the black away. "Are you doing to lecture me now?" Sherlock drawled, sitting up and taking off his dirtied shirt, using it to wipe remnants of blood off himself before throwing it aside and pulling on an old grey t-shirt. "And here I was, thinking you might actually understand." There was a tone of bitterness underlying the apparent sarcasm, and he pointedly ignored John, throwing the duvet over the dead woman and leaning back against the headboard of the bed, more or less using her as a foot bolster as he reclined.  
  
“Yes, that is exactly what I’m going to do.” John took a few halting steps forward, and stopped shortly, cupping his nose in his hands. That rusty odour of blood, of death, intensified the closer he got. It was already starting to decay. In a reprimanding manner, he pointed at the human-sized lump under Sherlock’s duvet. “She couldn’t have been older than, what? Twenty, twenty one?”  
  
After a moment of frustration, Sherlock sat up again, pulling the cover back to reveal her again. "Just turned twenty, university student, studying political science. On weekends she plays sports, hockey and soccer, depending on the season, and for a few years was enthusiastic about archery. Her favourite colour is mauve, her favourite band is The Smiths, and she quite enjoys going home with strangers. Care to explain how knowing anything about her changes anything?"  
  
John’s hand dropped from his nose, and he stood for a moment, almost unbelieving of what he was hearing. “You don’t even keep your distance,” he said with mixed awe. “Doesn’t knowing all that bother you, at all? What about her family, her parents? They’re never going to see her again, seeing as you’ve just killed her.”  
  
Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow. "Everybody dies, John," he said coldly. "What difference would it make if I knew nothing about her? You seem more bothered by the fact that I don't care than you do that she's dead; might want to check your own moral code, there."  
  
“Of course that bothers me.” John’s voice shook, angered by how resigned Sherlock was. “Because if you’re seriously, seriously okay with murder - and that’s what it is, Sherlock - then you’re going to keep doing it and continue not giving a toss.”  
  
"Yes. And?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And that’s evil, Sherlock.”
> 
> "And I'm a vampire, John. People dying so that I can carry on is rather the point."

“And that’s evil, Sherlock.”  
  
"And I'm a vampire, John. People dying so that I can carry on is rather the point."  
  
As the valid point was made, John stopped for a minute of thought. His intense facial expression did not change. After a long pause, he asked, “How does it work, with you and blood?” Completely serious, he took another half-step towards him. “Is it .. like being hungry, and you have to fill up, or what?”  
  
At the change in John's interrogation, an actual question rather than just bland morality speeches, Sherlock actually gave John his proper attention. "'Hungry' is an understatement. Strictly speaking, we can live without it. I won't die if I don't feed. But then there's the withdrawal, and the hunger, and the ensuing insanity until I feed again. Something I'd rather not dabble with, personally. Some do, but they tend to either go mad or just give up and feed again."  
  
Nodding, John carefully followed. “So it’s like being addicted.”  
  
"If you mean in the same sense that you're addicted to oxygenated air, then yes. When I say 'strictly speaking' we won't die, I mean it. I don't know of anyone who's gone more than a few decades without going completely insane, and usually when they fall off the wagon, the deaths which ensue are worse than they would have been if they'd just fed regularly. It's life-force, John. Not nicotine."  
  
Slowly, John seated himself on the very edge of Sherlock’s bed, far from the body. His overall attitude had softened; less judgemental, as he could see the reasoning being the killing, but he could not accept that nothing could be done about it. At the very least, he was going to aim for a result by the end of the conversation. A frown furrowed his brow, thinking again. “You could .. try?”   
  
His position shifted slightly, cutting in before Sherlock could attack the suggestion. “I don’t mean going clean, before you go ballistic. I mean only doing it when you absolutely have to, so it’s less excessive, do you know what I mean?”  
  
"So you're suggesting I go slightly mad on a regular basis, only to feed to stave off the worst of it, then go slightly mad again. Also, in the process, losing quite a fond pastime, and probably ousting myself from the closest thing I have to family. Why, exactly, would you think that would be an appealing idea?"  
  
“Because I don’t think you’re a monster, Sherlock.” John responded, somewhat calmer now. “I’m not asking you to stop. Just, cut back. Please can you just try?”  
  
"You just think what I do is monstrous," he replied slowly, processing. It was a unique point of view, after all - having kept solely the company of your own kind did give one a rather unipolar outlook.   
  
John didn’t move or speak, he simply looked at Sherlock and waited for an answer. After a few moments, Sherlock glanced back at the body, a shadow of his human past flitting across his face just momentarily, the blood-rush gently fading as time passed. "You're right, of course. That's nothing I haven't known before now."  
  
He sat quietly for a few minutes, contemplating. "Why does it matter to you if I'm 'good' or not? People will still die. Even if I cut back, you're still looking at at least... half a dozen dead humans a year until I manage to deal with the withdrawal better, and who knows how long that would take, if ever. Two months without is hellish at this stage of my life. One, every two months at minimum. Does your 'morality' tell you that's a worthwhile sacrifice for my life? If it doesn't, then you may as well just get it over with and kill me now. I'm not Mitchell, I'm not going to wallow around for decades in my own self-loathing, trying to make peace with the world for my sins."  
  
Sitting quietly, John digested Sherlock’s apprehensions and fears, but carried on with determination. “That’s the whole point though, isn’t it? Living.” He said, gentle yet firm. “Six people is better than twenty, Sherlock. But, maybe pick people who don’t have their whole lives ahead of them.”  
  
He inclined his head slightly towards the corpse, but smiled. “It isn’t about being good or bad, it’s about being that bit more human.”  
  
"But I'm not. And I never will be." Sherlock countered, sighing. "Even when I was, people had their doubts," he added, letting out a short, low chuckle, shrugging. "If they knew what I was, they'd kill me in an instant. I suppose I find it hard to be sympathetic. I find it hard to see what's so grand about being human. Half of them are just as heartless as I am anyway."  
  
John’s small, sad smile stretched a little when Sherlock uttered a laugh, then fell. “I’m not either, but I try.” He sucked in a deep breath, and sighed it back out. “I’m scared that I’m going to wind up like my father,” He turned to face Sherlock, steely determination hardening his eyes and thinning his lips. “If not for them, do it for yourself.”  
  
"But I don't want to. That would be you, John. And besides, you more or less -are- human ninety percent of the time. Aside from the full moon, you have a great deal of humanity. I gave mine away by choice; I have no desire to get it back."  
  
“Yeah, because I fought for my humanity, Sherlock. It would have been so much easier, just letting it go.” John knew when to pick his battles, and he would defend the goodness of humanity until the ends of earth. It was all that got him through, most of the time. “You really have no regrets?”  
  
Sherlock sat quietly as the pointed question was put to him. That was a question he'd not been asked before, and certainly one he would never choose to put to himself. "Why would I want to regret? I have until the end of time, John. I'll burn in hell when I die, I'd rather not create my own little hell up here before that happens."  
  
Seeing that he had stroked a nerve, John focused intensely on him. “Just because you don’t want to regret doesn’t mean you don’t anyway.”  
  
"That doesn't mean I have to face it," Sherlock said, far too quickly, before huffing out an anxious breath and looking away.   
  
A quiet moment, where John could see a growing hint of panic in Sherlock’s eyes, his own becoming suspiciously bright. He couldn’t rid himself of the sense that something, or rather someone, was important in this. He searched his recent memory for that unfamiliar name, “Sherlock, who’s Mitchell?” he queried softly.  
  
Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, wincing momentarily as they snagged on dried blood before sitting upright again and eventually facing John, though not making eye contact. "He's the one who made me. He's old, he'd done... terrible things, but he was clean by the time I met him." He stopped, pausing to take a breath.   
  
"It hurt him every day. Constantly. There was hardly a moment when you could look at him and not see it, every single one of them writ on his mind. He hated himself for what he'd done; once he was clean, the guilt came back. But he still wanted to feed. Can... can you imagine, hating yourself that much for what you'd done, and yet constantly wanting to do it again? Needing to?" Sherlock's voice fell and he let his head drop, biting his bottom lip before shaking his head. "No. No, I'm not doing that, John. I'm not."  
  
The depth of emotion that John saw in Sherlock caught him off-guard. He tightened his hands on his lap and bowed his head; in all honesty, no. He couldn’t imagine such a thing. Self-disgust was something John was constantly aware of, but at the very least, he could oppose by telling himself he didn’t want to do bad things. Being so involved, so compulsively occupied with wanting, John could not fathom.   
  
He rubbed at his eyes, taking the hugeness of it in. “Why do you think he does it?” John asked, redirecting him. “Mitchell, I mean. Why does he do that to himself?”  
  
Sherlock thought for a few seconds before responding. "He's seen the other side. Vampires who have hundreds and hundreds of years of nothing but death. It... twists them. They're impossibly cruel, even compared to him at his worst. Mitchell... hel believes we need at least some humanity, whatever we can scrape together, whatever we can bear, to stave that off. Otherwise there's nothing but the blood, and the kill. Part of it is atonement; he makes himself feel the pain because he wants to be punished. But I think it's also to remind him of the other option. Never feeling, never caring. He would rather feel pain, with the possibility if something else, than be a true monster. He wants... love, wants companionship. You can't have that if it's just the blood." He remained still, letting the words fill the room, unsure of what he made of them, even as they came from his mouth.   
  
“And is that what you want, Sherlock?” John asked, watching closely. “Just the blood?”  
  
Sherlock sighed, shifting on the bed. "Not caring doesn't seem like such a bad option. I've never been one for companionship anyway. There's been one person in my life who genuinely cared for me, whom I cared for, and I ruined that one decades ago." He exhaled, looking down, all too aware that he hadn't actually answered John's question.   
  
In the ensuing silence, John contemplated all Sherlock had told him. He could read fractions of the subtext, but knew that there was so much Sherlock wasn’t ready to reveal. “If you had another chance,” he began to ask. “Another chance at companionship, would you take it?”  
  
A huffed laugh left Sherlock's lips, amused as he was to hear such a massive question asked so simply. "If it was worth the hunger, worth putting up with the pain of it? Maybe. I don't know."   
  
Only hoping to dissuade Sherlock’s fears, John picked his words carefully. “Only one way you’re going to find out.” He said, raising his hand from his lap, and offering it to Sherlock.   
  
At the proffered hand, Sherlock raised an eyebrow, suspiciously but with a sense of humour behind his eyes. "So you're saying I should suffer, in case one day someone should decide to love me. Hmph, I've never heard a more human notion in my life." After a still pause, in which it seemed that Sherlock had discredited the idea altogether, he took John's hand lazily, sighing and exhaling. "And already, I know I'm going to regret this," he said lightly, with a serious, and somewhat concerned, undertone.   
  
With their agreement made, John gave a brief nod and a smile, a warmer one this time; a smile of content. Through his hand, he could feel Sherlock shaking with the emotions he knew he was trying to repress, and decided not to speak of it any further. He took a final deep breath to steady himself, then pulled himself to his feet. “Alright.” He said, after his silent thanks, taking new action. “Give me those bed sheets, I’ll throw them in the wash.”  
  
"If you take the sheets, where are you going to put her?" he asked, cocking his head at the near-forgotten dead girl on the bed. "Leave them until I've taken her out. My shirt could use a spot clean, though."  
  
Sighing, John bent and swept up the discarded shirt. “You had to wear the white one.” He held said shirt out in front of himself, at arm’s length, shaking his head disapprovingly. “You realise this is going to need a soak and lots of peroxide? Blood’s a pain in the arse to get out.” He warily said, in a manner that was very much in line with their usual household affairs.  
  
Domesticity restored, he went off to soak the shirt. The rest could wait until morning.


	5. Chapter 5

Three weeks into ‘detox’, and the pressure was already setting in. The first thing John noticed was the way Sherlock behaved in public; the way he closed his eyes and concentrated whenever they passed through crowds. Restraint and hunger warred for dominance, with Sherlock only just managing to keep it together. It was the same at home. Prolonged pain throbbed within the vampire, and it only intensified with time.

John closed his laptop down after typing this and that into his journal, and moved from the table, to his armchair. Scrubbing his hands over his face, he leant back and relaxed himself, looking at the television with half-closed eyes, only to be startled, seconds later, by a fast-slammed door. 

Sherlock leant his back against the door, heaving lungfuls of air, his eyes scrunched shut. Running away from the world had never been so literal. Once he'd caught his breath, more from the strain of restraint than physical extension, he struck the door behind him with both hands, then turned around and punched it, so hard that a thin layer of wood splintered under his fist. Shaking, he hunched and leaned forward, letting his forehead hit the door with a thud. "I can't do this..."

John looked at Sherlock for a long moment, seeing the day’s deprivation claw at him. He sat up a little straighter in his armchair and cleared his throat, “You’re home early?” As far as he knew, Sherlock’s shift at the morgue didn’t finish for another few hours.

"Research assistant," Sherlock replied through gritted teeth, unmoving, "She was there all morning, and she will be there again tomorrow. I am going insane." He huffed, his shoulders rising and falling with each laboured breath. "I mean it, John. I can't do this."

John made a slow ‘ah’ of realisation, once his brain had finished processing what Sherlock was saying; being surrounded by dead bodies, Sherlock could tolerate, but being followed around by a portable drinking fountain, when he was so thirsty, was more than just an endurance test. “Sherlock, you’re doing really well.” He pivoted in his seat, facing him. “Don’t give up now.”

"Oh, fuck off, John. 'Doing really well'." Sherlock sneered, butting his head again. "Well done to me. I've managed to not kill anyone for... three weeks now, and I can't even manage a full day at work because there's someone there who has a pulse. Then I had to walk home, and god, wasn't that a joy. I... I can't be around them like this. The smell, and I can hear the blood, and..." He stopped again, shutting his mouth tightly, his hand balled into a tight fist against the door.

Letting Sherlock finish using him as a verbal punching bag, John grimaced at the conclusion of it. “Okay, you’re feeling the burn. That’s .. understandable. Just try to remember why you’re doing it.”

"I, honestly, have no idea. Personally, I'd be a whole lot happier if I could just go back outside right now and get it over with. Fuck humanity, John. "

Sighing, John leant forward and flopped his hands between his knees. Being accountable for a vampire going through withdrawal was hard work at the best of times. “Isn’t there some kind of help you can get?” He implored. “I’m guessing there isn’t some kind of ‘Vampire AA’…“

"What kind of help, John? We don't do this, we aren't designed to do this. The ones who do are ostracised if they're successful, and even then, they almost always fail. I told you that before I started this whole ridiculous thing. Even Mitchell still loses it, and he's been getting clean for decades. Everyone else gives up or dies."

Dragging his fingers down his face, John suggested the only thing he could think of. “Why don’t you find him, then? Your Mitchell bloke. If he’s been doing it that long, he might be able to help you out.”

Sherlock laughed coldly, the disbelief thick in his voice. "And why would Mitchell help me? I left him, John. He made me this way, after I asked him to, and I left him." He let out another sad laugh, then hit the door a final time before he turned around, leaning his upper back against it. "Being human is highly overrated," Sherlock finished, pushing off from the door and walking across the living room towards his bedroom, grabbing a lone pack of cigarettes from the mantle on the way past.

As Sherlock passed, John watched him, seeing that he was fighting a losing battle. Nothing was going to calm him down, not at the moment, while the taste of his last kill was still raw in his mouth. In a final effort to restore supportive optimism, John spoke as Sherlock walked passed him again, “You’re better than you think, Sherlock.”

"You're wrong, and I will prove it some day," Sherlock said bitterly, distractedly drawing out a cigarette from the pack, putting it between his lips as he walked away.

His bedroom door closed with a bang.

\---

Another week crawled on by, then a second. With the third, came the harsh realisation that Sherlock was more deranged than ever, and was only getting worse. He barely left his room, and had started to miss shifts at work, over the sheer possibility of there being anything other than corpses there. Whenever Sherlock did emerge, John had a knot of worry in his stomach, as his mood would range from delirious to completely demented. 

He was becoming near-impossible to live with, and that was putting it kindly. John decided, he would have to take his own action, else watch Sherlock completely destroy himself. On a particularly quiet night, with Sherlock holed up in his room again, John opened up his laptop. He remained alert, constantly checking for disturbance, as he typed the key words ‘mitchell’ and ‘vampire’ into a search engine.

Leaning forward with intrigue, he silently muttered through the results as he came across them. The first few seemed irrelevant, relating mainly to blood fetishists, until he came across a page that actually carried the name ‘Mitchell’. John clicked, and began to read. It was a message board of sorts, still within the same vein as the fetishists, providing contact information for ‘a bloke that fancies himself a vampire, really hot though.’ It might have been the right guy, it might not have, but it was all John had thus far. Checking the kitchen corridor with another glance, he took out his mobile, and carefully dialled in the number.

Straightening up, John held the phone to his ear and waited. After a couple of rings, the line picked up, answered by a mumbling, half-asleep man with an Irish accent.

_"Hello?"_

John cleared his throat, “Hello, yes. Can I ask who’s speaking, please?" 

" _Mitchell. Who's this?_ " The man replied, audibly shifting in an attempt to wake up. 

“Right. Well, my name’s John. I got your number from this website, ‘Torture Garden’?”

" _Oh, fecking hell... Another one? Look, just leave me alone, alright? Not interested. I'm not judgin' the lifestyle, but--_ "

Right on the defensive, John butted in, “No, no. I’m not-” He stammered, then took a second to smooth his voice out. “I’m not looking for anything like .. that. I was hoping I could ask for your help.”

" _Help wit' what?_ " Mitchell asked, some suspicion in his voice.

“I have a friend, who’s trying to get himself clean. A vampire friend.” John softly said, leaning forward slightly, watching the kitchen space. “You know Sherlock Holmes?”

The line was quiet for a moment. " _Sherlock? Is he alright?_ "

Unexpectedly, John was met with a voice of fast concern. His brows creased together, in fleeting surprise. “Um, yeah. He’s fine. Bit of tough time right now, though. With the withdrawal," he explained. “I can’t really fathom what he’s going through. I mean, I help him all I can but .. you, Mitchell. He talks about you.”

The line was quiet again, for slightly longer this time. " _Yeah, 'ts hell. The withdrawal._ " He paused again, thinking, then deciding not to comment on the latter part of what the caller had said. " _When you say 'a tough time'... How bad is he?_ "

John’s eyes closed, and he let out a nasal sigh. There was a beat of consideration. “He’s... really bad. I really think this could be destroying him. It's only been a few weeks, and I’m already wondering how much longer he’s going to last…”

Mitchell sighed, a low shudder audible over the phone, then silence as he thought for a while. " _You can bring him here. It won't stop it hurting, but I'll do what I can_." 

All at once John felt waves of dread and relief break upon him. He remembered Sherlock’s immediate rejection when the idea of seeking Mitchell out was first brought forward, so he was fully expecting a fight on his hands. Still, it was greater support than John could give, from someone with the experience. “Alright.” He nodded in compliance, though the man on the other end couldn’t see. “Could I have an address, please?” John scrambled for a pen and piece of paper. “It says on the site that you’re in Bristol.”

" _Yeah. I'm on the corner of Windsor Terrace and Henry Street, in Totterdown. I have housemates, but they don't mind guests_."

Quickly, John scribbled down the address, then looked down at it in confirmation. “That’s fine.” He placed the pen down, letting a moment of quiet settle. Eventually, John concluded, “Thank you, Mitchell. I know he’ll be glad to see you.”

" _Yea, we'll see. It's been a while. When'll you send him down? There's a coach at 3am daily from London if that's where you are; hardly anyone goes on it. Probably the safest bet, if you know what I mean._ "

“We’re in London, yeah.” John said, silently noting the early-hour couch, and the reasoning behind it. “I’ll make sure he’s on the coach, tonight. He needs the help as soon as he can get it.”

" _Tell him I'll meet him at the station. 'Ts not too far from here_." A few moments passed until Mitchell spoke up again. " _So... What'd he say about me?_ " he added, sounding a little more 'teenage girl' than 'vicious killer'.

John paused, at the surprising turn in conversation. He hesitated, wondering if answering was actually wise, considering that there was history between them, from what Sherlock had said. “He.. um, he certainly admires you.”

" _Oh,_ " Mitchell replied, sounding somewhat surprised at the chosen adjective. " _Well, could be worse,_ " he added with a short laugh. He took a deep breath, becoming serious once more. " _Just make sure he gets here. I'll take care of him. Promise._ "

“I will, and thank you.” John responded, expressing quiet gratitude. “Goodnight Mitchell.”


	6. Chapter 6

“...You did what?”

“I .. got in touch with Mitchell.”

“And why the... for god’s sake, John. You know, I had thought that I would be the last person he’d want to hear from, but no, I was wrong, I’m second-to-last. Absolute last would be my... minder.”

“He was quite eager, actually.”

Sherlock stopped, visibly surprised by John’s comment on Mitchell’s demeanour. He’d been crouched on the bed, trying for yet another hour to wait out the cramps, the stomach pain, the headaches, but stood up now, albeit shakily. “Eager how?”

Once again, John found himself standing near the far wall. Approaching him had been far too risky as of late. “Well, he wanted to know how you were. How you were doing,” His face then became a firm mask. “And he’s expecting you. Tomorrow." 

Sherlock’s face turned dark, the shock well hidden behind instantaneous anger. “So you, you called the vampire that made me, without my permission, and made an appointment? Why the hell did that seem like a good idea to you? I can’t--” He cut himself off, roughly setting himself back down on the bed, leaning over and running his fingers through his hair, grabbing handfuls and remaining still. “I haven’t seen him in years. I can’t see him again like this. Not like this.”

“Yes, I did.” John confirmed, without any hint of apology, though his face did soften with a note of sympathy. “You’re seeing him because you’re like this, Sherlock. What’s your plan, if you’re not going to let him help you? Stay here, until you’re completely insane?”

Huffing, Sherlock made a strangled sound, too tense to relax his vocal chords enough to speak without conscious effort. After a moment he laughed, a weak, off-centre sort of sound. “I’m already insane, John,” he said miserably, before laughing that same laugh again, then stilling into silence. “It still hurts, and it’s not getting easier. I fail to see how being out of my mind in front of him is going to be any better than being out of my mind here.”

“Sherlock, he knows what you’re going through. Whatever he’s got to offer, it has to be more than this.” John countered, persistence fixed. “Anyway, its all booked and sorted now. You’re going to Bristol tonight. 

Sherlock’s extended silence was the only indication that he’d heard John’s proclamation, but it was clear enough that he had. Finally, he cleared his throat, which was painfully dry, and felt shredded after the seemingly endless days of screaming at the walls, licking his cracked lips before speaking again. “I know you mean well, but I can’t promise I won’t hate you for this if it fails.”

John wasn’t surprised, he had been waiting for a similar proclamation since the start. Yet still, he looked slightly abashed for it. “I know.” He said, remaining firm. There was no certain outcome, but he knew that no good would come out of Sherlock killing, or killing himself.

Scoffing slightly, Sherlock finally pulled his fingers from his mess of hair, wringing them together briefly before standing again, with a little more certainty this time. “So you’d risk me hating you, just for a theoretical chance that this will get better?”

“I’m very used to being hated, Sherlock. So .. yeah.” 

Sherlock looked away, the numerous implications in that sentence more than clear enough. “And Mitchell said he wants me there. Because if you’re just putting me on a coach to Bristol in the hope that he’ll take pity--” 

“No, this was his idea. I promise it was.” John assured, in earnest truth. He had called Mitchell expecting a few words of advice at most. “He’s going to meet you at the coach station, and take you back to his house. Like I said, it’s all sorted.”

Still shaking slightly, muscles taut and strained from the stress upon them, Sherlock, eventually, nodded. “Really not much choice, then.”

Smiling sadly, John shook his head. “Not really, no.”

“You can’t come,” Sherlock said, forcing himself to take even breaths, John’s prolonged presence starting to become more noticibly difficult to ignore. “Mitchell and I have too much history. If I have to do this, I have to do itwith only him. It’s almost your ‘time of the month’ besides.”

John’s smile fell, and he opened his mouth to protest, almost stating that he had to know that Sherlock was alright, and that he couldn’t just be left alone with someone he had that much history with, in case something did go wrong. However, he was silenced when Sherlock reminded him that it was almost the end of the month - his ‘hairy time’. John had almost forgotten his own affairs, whilst dealing with Sherlock’s.

He eventually nodded, with reluctant agreeance. “You’ll call?”

“Yes, mother,” Sherlock replied with snark, although a slight, very slight, undertone of gratitude bled through. “What time’s departure?”

“3 o’clock, tomorrow morning. Again, Mitchell’s idea,” John said. “With there being less people.”

“Good thing I’m naturally nocturnal these days. Not that I’ve slept all week anyway.” Sherlock frowned, still not even close to happy about the arrangement, but begrudgingly accepting of it nonetheless. “You’ll need to pack my bag. I don’t have the head for it.” Noting John’s hesitance, well earned after the last few weeks, Sherlock shrugged and took a step towards the door. “I’ll go wait in your room. Shall try not to break anything." 

Apparently John had been too obvious in keeping his distance. He tensed a little, when Sherlock made the suggestion; he wasn’t completely fearless of the whole vampire concept, not yet, and the withdrawal made Sherlock behave so unpredictably. “Kind of you.” All the same, John smiled and nodded. “I’ll leave it in here, your bag.”

Sherlock forced a smile, however brief. “I wouldn’t like to be in here too long with me either, if I could avoid it.” It was a painful sentence, far too honest and far too raw, but he let it slide without further comment. “I’ll try to sleep before I need to leave. Just.. avoid waking me, if you can,” he warned.

John gave him one slow, assenting bow of his head, and Sherlock took that as his dismissal. He walked out, leaving John to fetch an empty duffle bag from the bottom of the wardrobe and start filling it. It was a meditative process, with John’s mind rarely focused on what he was doing; instead, he considered what he had actually done. Who ever heard of trying to get a vampire clean? It sounded bizarre, when he thought it back to himself.

He folded a black shirt over his arm and paused, caught in serious thought. There was a chance that Mitchell wasn’t altogether ‘there’ himself - Sherlock did say that the madness of bloodlust still drove him insane at times. John felt a knot of dread in his stomach, hating the uncertainty of it. With a huff, he placed the shirt into the bag, then reached into his back pocket to fetch Sherlock’s coach ticket.

Initially, John had booked two tickets, assuming he was going too. His own was the same as Sherlock’s, an off-peak return to Bristol, any time within the month. He took his ticket out with a mind to throw it away, as it had now been deemed useless, but found himself with a new need to hold onto it.

Decidedly, John refolded both tickets, and tucked them back into his pocket.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock makes the journey to Bristol, and is reunited with an old friend.

 The coach to Bristol was absolute hell from beginning to end. Sherlock spent the entire journey in the back seat of the coach, wrapped in a thick coat, blasting music loud enough in-ear to knock out all surrounding sound. The close proximity to the living was bearable, at least, if he couldn't hear nor see them.

Somehow, miraculously, he arrived at the coach station, waiting until everyone but the driver had disembarked before gathering his things, turning off the music and stepping off the coach.

Mitchell had arrived a couple of hours early, despite knowing that this particular coach virtually never ran late. With so few passengers and even less stops, a mechanical breakdown would be the only way it would be delayed.

There was a small smattering of cigarette butts on the ground by his foot, most of them crushed into the concrete while he was waiting; still better than waiting at home, checking the clock every ten seconds to make sure he wouldn't be late. After not seeing Sherlock for so long, the pressure was greater than he might have liked, especially under the circumstances. He knew all too well what Sherlock was going through.

Sherlock saw him the instant he stepped off  - Mitchell, lighting (yet another) cigarette, the short-lived yellow glow of his lighter functioning as a beacon. Bag in one hand, he walked towards him, steeling himself - Sherlock would like to make a decent impression, at least, before he started breaking down again. He saw Mitchell tense slightly, an almost invisible twitch which would have been missed by anyone less observant than Sherlock himself. Strengthened by Mitchell's presence, and by how long he'd clearly been waiting there, Sherlock drew a cigarette of his own from the pack in his pocket, holding it between two fingers as he stepped up to his maker.

"Spare a light?"

\--- 

The walk back to Mitchell's house had been uneventful. Mitchell had filled Sherlock in on his housemates, shared some random facts about Bristol. Nothing about the past, nothing about what had happened the last time they saw each other, or what had become of their lives since then. Small-talk. Safe. Mitchell's attempts to keep Sherlock calm, from being triggered, were commendable, but made him rather dull in Sherlock's eyes. He understood it, though. It would not be good for either of them to crack now; even Mitchell, by now well versed in self-restraint, was no angel, and certainly was not beyond rekindling his darkness if he drew too near to it.

Once they arrived, Mitchell let Sherlock into the house, then lead him up to his bedroom; hurriedly cleaning up a little before inviting Sherlock to sit and taking his coat 

"So, how're you doin'?" Mitchell asked after a few moments had passed, sitting on the dresser facing Sherlock.

"I've been better," Sherlock replied, exhaling a long, controlled breath.

"Yeah. Yeah, I know." He smiled grimly, sighing softly himself. "You're doin' it, t’ough. I'm proud of you."

Sherlock looked up, then down again with a self-effacing laugh. "Proud? You told me this would happen decades ago, and I didn’t listen. Now I've come back, a snake crawling from my hole, pleading for help. There's no pride in that."

Mitchell scrubbed his face with the palm of one gloved hand. "Like I said, you're doin' it. You're tryin’ to be better. Asking for help isn't weakness, Lock."

Sherlock struggled, determined to continue the conversation at least. "What do we do, then? Is there a system I've not heard of?"

"No," Mitchell answered with a short laugh, "No system. When I... well, one of the times, one of me mates tied me to a chair for a month until I stopped cursin' at him. The other times were just... willpower. Not lettin' myself, reminding myself why I was doin' it."

"And why were you? It seemed a decent idea at the start, but the reasons _why_ vanished by week four. Now I'm only doing it because I refuse to fail."

"Me? I... I s’pose, I'd seen more'n enough bloodshed. And I'd known enough people who'd caused it; seen what it'd done to them. Just killin', it makes you hollow. You need to let the sun in. Enjoy life. Be... happy."

"Are you?"

"Sometimes, yeah. Other times... it's never gonna get better if I let it take me over. At least this way, there's hope of something else. An eternity of suckin' blood really isn't as romantic as the novels make it seem. The human bits are what make it worthwhile, make it interesting. You can't tell me that just eating people was enough to keep you content."

Sherlock quirked a small smile, chancing to look up and meet Mitchell's gaze, seeing that face again finally light up into that ridiculous grin. "No, not content. I’d thought- "

"You thought it'd be enough, but it's not, Lock. It never is. You could drain every human in the planet, and it'd not be enough. That's the curse of it. At least, if you can get past the hunger... you can start doin' other things. Anyway, they're not all bad. I'm sure you'll find a few interesting folks to spend your time with. What about your new bloke - John?"

Chuckling again, Sherlock shook his head. "No, not my 'bloke'. Just a friend. He's not the most intellectually stimulating, but he.. cares. He's the reason I started this. Convinced me of the ‘values of humanity’."

Mitchell smirked. "Do I throw my arm around this guy or did I give him the green-eyed glare?" Sherlock laughed again at that, and Mitchell continued. "Look, you can stay 'ere, alright? Until the worst of it is over. I'll keep you up here, try to keep your mind off it. I'll bring the telly up. We've got DVDs and stuff if you want it."

With a condescending look, Sherlock commented, "Your genius plan to get me through withdrawal is daytime television and Laurel and Hardy?"

"Well, I'm not the genius, but it sounds like a good a place as any to start. And I'll be here. In the room. When it gets bad."

Sherlock nodded, then sat quietly for a moment, the short-lived lightheartedness fading quickly. "Why are you doing this, Mitchell? Honestly, why? We haven't spoken in decades, and I didn't exactly live up to your expectations last time."

Mitchell paused, hesitating a while before responding, making sure to choose his words wisely. "Because you matter. You always have, Lock. Always will, too. And if I can help you, I will. If I can't, then... I'll be here all the same. We'll go dark-side together."

Sherlock scoffed. "No pressure, then."

"No pressure at all." Mitchell leaned forward, taking one of Sherlock's slightly trembling hands into both of his own. "You can do this, Sherlock. I know you don't think you're a good man, you didn't even when you were alive, but you can do this. I know you better than anyone."

Bringing his other hand up to rest atop Mitchell's, Sherlock took a long breath, both hands trembling as he squeezed them. After a long, poignant silence, Sherlock finally spoke again. "I've missed you," he said quietly, his voice little more than a whisper.

" 've missed you too, Lock. Wish circumstances were diff'rent, but I'm glad you're here. 's been too long."

After another silence, this one slightly more comfortable than the last, both men locked in reminiscence and regret, Sherlock pulled his hands from Mitchell's grasp, shifting around and dumping his bag from the bed to the floor. "I'm going to lay down for a while. Consciousness is proving torturous. You would think I would be used to that by now, but, no."

"Y'want me to go? Let you sleep a while?"

Moving around and kicking off his shoes before reclining on his side in the bed, Sherlock shook his head subtly. "No." A moment of hesitation later, he looked up at Mitchell again, painfully aware of how much his eyes revealed in such a tenuous state. "Stay?"

Mitchell smiled, nodded, and pulled off his own shoes, throwing them out of the way. "You want me to hold you f'r a while? It used to help, when it got too much before." Sherlock nodded silently, shuffling on the bed to make room for the other.

\---

"I am grateful, you know."

"I know, Lock."

"Whatever I say."

"... 's alright. Just get some sleep."


	8. Chapter 8

 

"I hate you, you useless, _useless_ imbicile. I wish I'd never even seen your face. You ruined my life once already, now you're doing it again. _Let me go!_ "

 ---

"...I'm sorry, Mitchell, I'm sorry. I didn't..."

"I know, it hurts. It'll pass. Jus' give it time."

 ---

The sound of breaking glass startled the residents downstairs. The later explanation of 'fist through the telly screen' was less than calming.

 ---

"Why did you kiss me last night?"

"I want'd to distract you. Get your mind off things for a while."

"..."

"It worked, didn't it?"

"For a while."

"Want me to try again?"

\---

\---

“What the hell do you mean ‘no services’?”

“What I said. No services going to London today, as there’s repairs being made to the line. For your own safety.”

Looking around, John made sure there was no one in the vicinity of the ticket kiosk. He leant forward, sighing out briefly, before speaking in a low plea. “I really, really need to get back to London tonight. Isn’t there some kind of bus, a replacement service?”

The man behind the glass waved his hand in dismissal. “Sorry mate, come back in the morning. London trains will resume then.”

“No, it has to be _tonight_!” John’s voice lowered and became more intense, frustration fuelled into anger, to which the ticket man shrank back and leant towards his desk phone; he warned John, “I suggest you clear off, before I get the Old Bill.”

John knew he would have to back off, before he launched into more than just a tirade. Defeated, he walked away from the kiosk, stopping just outside the train station and dropping his duffle bag, staring at the ground, eyes as hard as a flint. A full moon tonight, and he had no way of getting to his safe place. Over the last week, spent in a bed and breakfast, John did not predict that Sherlock would stay longer than a few days - nor did he anticipate the train cancellations.

He pinched down on the bridge of his nose, trying to think; Bristol was a big place with people everywhere, he had no idea if there was a conveniently empty cellar somewhere, and he didn’t have time to look. Sudden panic flashed through him, when he thought of just how little time there was. He had to move, before it ran out altogether.

It was already getting dark.

With nervously huffed breaths, John took out his phone and stabbed in Sherlock’s number. It was all he could think to do; Sherlock finding out about his week-long vigilance no longer seemed to matter. He lifted the phone to his ear when it began to ring, silently begging for his friend to answer quickly.

 

\---

 

Sherlock jumped as his phone started to ring, disentangling himself from Mitchell and rummaging around on the floor, following the charger cord until he found the phone itself, answering quickly. The wrong time of day for John to be calling just to check up, and he likely would have called Mitchell if he just wanted a status update. "John?"

Miles away, John sank back against the brick wall when he heard Sherlock’s voice, vulnerability throbbing through him. “Sherlock, you’ve got to help me. I’m in Bristol.”

"What? Wh-- You followed me." Sherlock let out a soft sigh, then dragged himself back on track as he sat up, ignoring John's stalking for the moment. "What about your transformation? Seems like a poor time for a holiday."

With a quiet laugh of dread, John replied, “That’s the problem. I’m in Bristol and I... I’ve no idea where I can go. I can’t do it in the street, Sherlock. I just can’t.”

" _Obviously you can't_. Where are you?" Already Sherlock was standing, fishing up his clothes with one hand and dressing himself. Mitchell sat up, then got out of bed and pulled on his jeans, leaving the questioning until later.

“Train station, Temple Meads. I was going home but they cancelled the _fucking_ trains... “ John tried to explain, suddenly becoming furious.

"Down boy," Sherlock berated, openly serious about his concern for the situation. "Just wait there."

With a halt, John took a moment to breathe and collect himself. “Yeah.. yeah, okay. I’ll just be near-- Sherlock?” Realising that the line was silent, he looked at the phone and saw that the call had been ended. Sighing again, he blew out another breath and bent, putting his hands on his knees. Hearing the distant chime of the station’s clock, he felt great waves of apprehension; time was ticking away too fast. John flinched and uttered a sharp gasp. He reached to grab his left shoulder, feeling that a muscle had abruptly twitched, threatening to protrude.

\---

Within minutes, a black car roared into the car park, flashing its lights in John's direction. Sherlock, visible in the passenger seat, motioned him forward, the tension clear on his face. John, who had been hunched over, straightened up at the blaring lights. He squinted for a moment, then rushed towards the car, forgetting his luggage and still holding onto his shoulder.

Throwing himself through the open door, John shut it fast and let out a pained exhale. As soon as the back door closed, Mitchell shoved the car into reverse, driving quickly (if not recklessly) back out of the car park, more than aware of how important time was on the evening of a full moon. Sherlock turned around in his seat, talking to John while Mitchell drove.

"It was _absolutely_ stupid for you to follow me here. Why didn't you at least go back yesterday?"

“I didn’t know I was going to get fucked by the trains, Sherlock!” John furiously barked back. He bent forward in his seat, groaning.

"Calm the _fuck_ down, both of you," Mitchell cut in, glaring at the both of them before pulling onto the main road, heading out to the forest George used on occasion. "Gettin' him angry now's not _exactly_ the best idea, Lock."

Sherlock shifted in his seat and visibly forced himself to calm, responding to Mitchell's demand without directly acknowledging it. "Breathe, John. It’ll be fine. Mitchell knows a place where you'll be safe."

After moments of rocking and whimpering as the two vampires exchanged words, John did as Sherlock said; he blew out a long breath, and repeated. Swinging from one strong emotion to another, his face twisted with strain. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t want you to see this-- oww, shit.”

Gritting his teeth, Sherlock looked away for a moment, wishing he could at least grant John some privacy. A little difficult, when he could already hear the tension grinding in John's joints. "Faster, Mitchell."

Mitchell glanced back again, swearing under his breath, becoming increasingly worried himself. The transformation was progressing into the early stages, he knew; by now, his liver and kidneys should have stopped and started to shrink. The outer changes would start soon, and if they happened while John was still in the car, both Mitchell and Sherlock would be dog meat.

 

Coming up on the forest, Mitchell took them off-road, driving on the bumpy grass to get closer to the tree-line. Sherlock reached back and opened John's door again, keeping himself in the car as Mitchell got out, jogging around to where John was staggering out, the pain writ on his face.

"Look, go right in there, and head up north-east as far as you can. No-one ever goes there; 's safe."

Following Mitchell’s finger, John stiffly nodded and pulled off his jacket, shoving it at Sherlock to hold. He began to unsteadily walk in the direction of safety, only to come to a halting stop no more than two feet away and let out a hard scream. He bent right over, clutching his ribs, as he felt his insides contract and shrink; his body beginning to contort.

"Oh, Christ.." Mitchell turned around, banging on Sherlock's window and indicating clearly for him to get out. Mitchell stepped up to John, firmly holding one arm, muttering vague reassurances while he waited for Sherlock. A second later, Sherlock came up alongside John and took his wrist, pulling his arm around his shoulders and supporting his lower back. Mitchell did the same.

Together, they walked John into the forest, more dragging than walking, getting up to a somewhat frantic jog by the time they reached the tree line. As John halted again, wracked with too much pain to be self aware, a determined Mitchell shook his head, pulling John forward forcefully, stumbling over sticks and undergrowth on the forest floor. "Not yet, you're too close t'the road still!"

John barely heard him, far too removed and consumed in agony as his body mutated. Inside him, bones twisted and snapped, internal organs tightened, and his mind fast depleted itself of human consciousness. He doggedly moved one foot in front of the other, forcing himself to keep going, with Mitchell and Sherlock pulling him closer to the deserted patch of forest, as the small shred of rationality remaining in his head worked overtime.

They rushed the last leg, with Mitchell practically throwing John to the ground once they got there and turned on his heel. Hopping on one foot momentarily, Mitchell turned back when he realised Sherlock was still there, stunned, stuck in place beside John, whose cries were quickly becoming more akin to strangled howls.

" _Lock, come on_. You don't have time t' be _curious_ right now. We need t' get out of here, _now._ " The anxiety was thick in Mitchell's voice, only a few steps down from 'panic'. Sherlock finally nodded, skittering away from John with an almost apologetic look, until he caught up with Mitchell. With one final glance back from both of them, Mitchell grabbed Sherlock's hand, pulling him into a sprint as they ran for safety.

 

Bent right forward on his knees, John’s desperate gasps became low and guttural, carrying new hostility up from his throat. Thatches of hair, thicker and darker than his own, pushed through the skin of his cracking and distorted form. His mouth salivated, and his teeth and nails grew out, becoming long and sharp. The gasps, now growls, began to even and relax as the scared, suffering man disappeared.

There was a moment of calm, as the enormous creature that had replaced John familiarised anew. It padded the ground on its large, clawed paws and emitted a series of grunts. Finally, it began to stand on its hind legs, torn clothes falling away as it did.

The sharp, wretched sounds of bones snapping and skin ripping forced Sherlock to wrench his hand from Mitchell's, coming to a halt at a somewhat safe distance from where the monstrous creature stood. At full height, the wolf was more frightening than he'd ever imagined, far taller than Sherlock himself and infinitely stronger. Even without knowing the lore or the tales, the sheer power in the creature was more than apparent.

Mitchell, who had halted less willingly when Sherlock had, grabbed at his hand again, squeezing hard enough to snap Sherlock out of what was fast becoming a reverie; the animalistic majesty, as unlikely as it seemed, holding his attention for far longer than was safe.

"We need to go, now," Mitchell harshly whispered, both eyes on the wolf. "It will tear us apart, Lock. _Now._ "

Sick of waiting and growingly panicked at the very realistic likelihood of that happening, he yanked Sherlock's arm and ran, forcing Sherlock to run with him, hoping their speed would get them far enough away to counter the sound of broken twigs and dried leaves underfoot. In a short time, they reached the car and leapt back into it, praying that their scent would dissipate quickly before the wolf had the chance to follow their scent trail to the road. 

 

Newly alert of its surroundings, the wolf arched its back and let out a long, mournful cry to the moon.


	9. Chapter 9

The next morning was damp and chilly, after a night full of rain. Slowly, John came to with a stifled groan, feeling sore all over. The first thing he registered was a vile, strong flavour in his mouth; the second, the mutilated corpse of a rabbit, lying within metres of him. Sitting up, he looked at the pulpy remains and gagged, struck with strong nausea.

Feeling his throat tighten, he bit the inside of his cheek to distract himself and began to stand, his legs taking a moment to stabilise. Looking about himself, he tried to gather what he knew - he knew that he was still in Bristol, had called Sherlock, was pulled... dragged, then it all went indistinct. As it usually did. He also knew that he had no preparations whatsoever; no bag, no clothes. With last night’s in tatters and probably miles away, all John could do was cover his modesty with his hands.

He began to walk, though he had no idea what neck of the woods he was in. A biting chill seized his bare body, as the wet grass numbed his feet and the occasional breeze sent a shiver up his back. No sooner did John start to walk, did his ears perk, picking up the distant sounds of... a car horn, honking every two minutes or so. Intuitively, he turned himself into the perceived direction, feeling that it was better to investigate than aimlessly wander.

For a few minutes, John moved cautiously between trees and shrubbery, before he abruptly stopped, becoming alert to another presence. With uncomfortable apprehension, he looked around - and saw another man, also naked, staring back at him from a distance. They both froze, stared, then scarpered in opposite directions. Not stopping to consider the occurrence, John retreated into the general direction of the car sounds, following his still-sharp range of audibility. He soon stopped to catch his breath, and spit out the disgusting taste of rabbit carcass, when he peered over wild shrubs and saw a road, and a car.

He knew that car, it was the one Sherlock had been driving - had Sherlock been driving? He couldn’t properly recall, memory still clouded. When John received a signal, through a longer, more impatient horn blare, he made a run for the car and jumped into the back seat, sighing out after he closed the door.

Sherlock offered a thin smile as John entered the car, before turning away and facing front, despite the car not yet being turned on. Better give the man a little privacy, at least.  

"The clothes in the rucksack are for you."

“Th-thanks.” John muttered, voice slightly hoarse. He saw the aforementioned rucksack on the floor and pulled it up, unzipping and taking out, what looked to be - a checkered shirt, pair of jeans (far too long, they were clearly made for a much taller man), underwear, socks and a towel. With a shivering huff, he began to scrub his face with the towel, removing all the chilly damp that he could.

"You should have stayed in London, John." 

Stopping a moment, John didn’t reply. He sighed with fast-closed eyes, accepting the chiding comment. In light of how it had worked out, Sherlock was probably right. Now was not the time for a debate, however. After the miserable pause, an abashed John shuffled into the underwear, then reached for the shirt.

Sherlock sighed, the extended silence getting worn already. "I'm taking you back to Mitchell's. No urgent need for you to go home now, after all."

With a glum murmur of agreement, John sat back and waited. Something weighed on his mind, as the fog in his head began to just slightly clear. Voice still carrying a gratingly harsh tone, from newly reformed vocal chords, John asked him, “Did you see it?” ‘It’ being wretchedly definitive.

"Yes." Sherlock answered simply, honestly. He'd known John would have wished otherwise, but there was nothing to gain from lying about it - Sherlock would want to ask questions later, when the opportunity arose, and lying now would inhibit said opportunities to learn later. John would recover from the ill-placed shame in time.

John uttered a tiny ‘oh god’ and sank his head into his hands, appalled. "It wasn't anything I didn't already know, John," Sherlock continued in an attempt to comfort him. "Just because I hadn't seen it myself before doesn't mean I didn't know the process in theory."

John’s head writhed in protest, face twisted in his palms. It didn’t matter, just knowing. For so long, he had worked to keep himself separated from it. Not just that, but the the act of transforming was... private. John had always designed his own so that it was kept secluded from sight, especially from those whose opinions mattered to him. Now that Sherlock had witnessed it, there was no doubt in John’s head that he would soon become disgusted and distant.

Ignoring John's silence, largely because he was unsure of how to go about dealing with it, Sherlock started the car, but didn't yet move onto the road.

"You should probably put the rest of the clothes on. Unless you intend to enter Mitchell’s home half-clothed."

“Please, Sherlock. Just... don’t.”

Leaving the car brake on, Sherlock turned around in his seat to face John again, a soft look of genuine confusion on his face at the depth of John's reaction. "Don't what?"

There was a pause, where John grew self-conscious of having made such an overt display of his fear and upset. He abruptly turned his head down, hiding his reddened and blurred eyes, fetching the jeans. “Nothing.” He quietly said, that being the last thing he wanted to talk about. “Can we go, please?”

"No," Sherlock said firmly, his need to find out (and possibly improve upon) what was wrong overriding the desire to ignore the issue altogether. "Don't what?"

With a deep nasal sigh, John could see that he wasn’t going anywhere yet. Not until he talked. He let the jeans drop to his lap, eyelids falling closed. “Don’t.. “ He began, letting just a little of that intense fear seep out. “Don’t... hate me.”

Sherlock was quiet for a few moments, realising just how tentative the situation was. "I don't hate you, and I won't. Certainly not over this."

John uttered a self-deprecating scoff; of course he would say that.

"John, I’m quite aware that transformations are a part of the lycan life cycle. One night of twenty-eight, I keep my distance. Nothing else has changed. If you truly think I'd hate you over an age-old curse, then you cannot begin to imagine what I am and the things I have done. Of the two of us, you are less hateable.” Sherlock said, matter of factly, ending with a low sigh. “So you killed a rabbit. There are plenty more, I promise no one will miss it."

Dropping his head, a minute tremor ran through John. He clenched his jaw and lifted his watery eyes, focusing on his friend. “I’ve killed hundreds of people, Sherlock.” He admitted softly. “In Afghanistan. They... I was a weapon.”

Sherlock responded in the exact same tone he'd used earlier. "And it was your choice?" 

Disquieted, John shook his head.

"Then this discussion is over," Sherlock said, a slight edge to the calm tone he'd been using. "Because I can answer an unabashed yes. Do you hate me for it?" Again, John shook his head. “Then stop making a hypocrite of me by assuming I would hate you for something you did not choose and cannot control. Now, put your trousers on."

Though still shaken, John was somehow pulled slightly away from his feelings of self-disgust when Sherlock spoke to him. He looked at him with a searching gaze, heavy with newer, gentler emotions. They were both ‘monsters’, by definition, and John was utterly unprepared for acceptance, even amongst his fellow monsters. He looked for a falseness, something that indicated Sherlock was just spinning him a comforting yarn, but he just saw... the usual blunt honesty.

It was strangely comforting, for once.


	10. Chapter 10

By the time they arrived in Totterdown, the occupants of the house were prepared for their arrival. Upon opening the door, the heavy scent of a full cooked English breakfast floated across the room from the kitchen; Sherlock glanced to George, Mitchell’s housemate, as he entered. A young woman was in the kitchen with George, making a lot of tea. She greeted the guests with a wide smile, and Sherlock nodded once in response, the new sense of relaxation causing him to feel anything but relaxed.

The words exchanged with John in the car, with their brutal honesty, had rut deeply into his head, and, now that the fog of anxiety had cleared, he felt.. exposed. Quickly, he gave flimsy introductions between John and the other two, too involved in himself to notice the agast look on George's face when he caught sight of John. Sherlock excused himself, escaping quickly upstairs.

Before John could follow him in earnest, a cup of tea was pushed at him by the young woman wearing a sunny smile. He halted and hesitated, looking with concern at the staircase, but resigning himself and taking the cup from her, to which she beamed even brighter. “You can see me.” She announced.

“Of course he can see you, he’s a-- “ George started, from the kitchen door, then broke into a higher voice of complaint. “Are those my clothes? Is that my cup? Annie, you gave him my cup!”

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realise you were _five,_ ” she rebuffed, turning her attention back to John. “Don’t mind him. John, wasn’t it?” John gave her a brief half-vacant nod, but had his eyes firmly fixed on George, who proceeded to move from the kitchen and joined them in the living room. They looked hard at each other for a long moment with slow recognition, before Annie broke in between them. “Are you checking each other out or something?”

John swallowed hard. “Um, no, we.. we’ve met, sort of. I think.” He looked back to George. “Sorry, was that... you, this morning? In the woods?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that was me.” George nodded, ducking his head for a moment.

“Right.” John uttered under his breath, echoing George’s awkward body language.

Annie crossed her arms in front of herself, completely relaxed between the two men, in the now-quieter, and significantly uncomfortable atmosphere. “So you’re.. both, werewolves, then?” She asked, to which John was visibly alarmed. She saw it right away, and rushed to lessen his sudden anxiousness. “Oh no, don’t worry. I’m dead, I couldn’t tell anyone even if I wanted to.”

That fact did not help John’s alarm. “You.. you’re dead?”

“You’re in a house full of monsters, and it’s the ghost that scares you,” George dryly muttered into his (other) cup, just before drinking his tea. Annie frowned at him, citing his behaviour as impolite to their guest, before looking back to John.

She resumed her smile, giving him a small pat on the arm, “Come have some breakfast, John.” With that, Annie went back into the kitchen, leaving the two men alone with each other. They stood in clumsy silence for a minute, unsure of how to acknowledge their new ally, until John cleared his throat and lifted his head.

“Sorry for running, and pinching your clothes.” He offered, allowing himself a shy, apologetic smile. “Last night was... it was very touch-and-go.”

Pushing his glasses higher up his nose, George dipped his head in acceptance, Annie’s telling off seeming to have mellowed him significantly. “S’alright. Arse-naked in the woods, who wouldn’t run, right?” They both quietly laughed, sharing a moment of mutual understanding, before George tossed his head sideways, indicating for John to go into the kitchen and have his breakfast.

When he did, John was immediately approached by Annie again, carrying a plated full-English. “Oh, John! How do you like your bacon? Only, George has to have his raw sometimes.”

\---

"I'm serious, Mitchell. I need to go home, now. I can't do this"

"For fuck's sake, Lock... I don't remember anyone saying it would be _easy_. You _knew_ this would be hell when you started, but you knew it would be worth it."

"But it's _not_ worth it!"

Sherlock lashed out, all his misplaced anger flowing down his arm as he struck out at Mitchell, his elder taking the punch to the side of his face. Cheekbone grazed, Mitchell practically growled, launching himself at Sherlock, pinning him against the wall, his forearm braced against Sherlock's throat. 

After a few moments spent in that tense holding pattern, Sherlock held his breath and struggled to get away, only succeeding in annoying Mitchell further. With an angry grunt, Mitchell pulled him from the wall, only to throw him against it again, pressing himself against Sherlock's front until they could feel each other's breath on their lips.


	11. Chapter 11

“You almost changed in the back of Mitchell’s _car_?”

Responding to Annie’s flabbergasted comment, John quickly swallowed his mouthful of toast. “I’m usually a lot more stealth than that.”

George glanced up from his plate, offering his own low-key input. “Well, good thing you didn’t wreck it. That’s my lift to work.” He reached forward, hovering his hand over (at least) eight cups of tea and coffee littered over the centre of the table. John had asked about it, to which the two explained that even though a ghost’s physique would not allow them to consume food or drink, Annie liked to continually make it anyway, as it made her feel ‘more normal’; she shed light on what was otherwise quite an unfavourable trait by saying that there was always a cup around if someone needed one, to which George added that they were always lukewarm.

They continued to politely chat over breakfast, discussing their jobs and lifestyles, mostly avoiding any grim turns the conversations could potentially take when discussing the supernatural way of life, when the conversation turned to the concealed vampire upstairs.

“How’s Sherlock been?” John asked, to either one.

Whereas Annie was hesitant, George was quite casual in answering as he poked about his plate with his fork, “Don’t see him that much. Mitchell keeps saying it’s for the best, while he’s going through his.. I don’t know, ‘rehabilitation’.” Annie gave him a glance, knowing that he had neglected to mention the shouting in the night, the broken television, and Mitchell’s constant vigilance of the desperately withdrawn vampire.

“Well, they seem to be getting along at lea-” Annie was interrupted, and all three turned their faces up to the ceiling, hearing a loud disturbance coming from upstairs. It started out as moving thumps, travelling to and fro, until there was a muffled outcry and loudly emitted moaning. George grimly set down his knife and fork, suddenly turned off his food, while John and Annie continued to stare upwards. Those weren’t the sounds of two vampires going war-to-war; evidently Sherlock and Mitchell got on really well.

John was alarmed, however, when one of them (clearly Sherlock) enthusiastically called out, ‘ _God, John, yes, fuck...!_ ’, to which the other two brought their stare down, looking at John with wide-open eyes.

“No, _no_! I don’t know why he’s saying- we’re not... “ He stumbled through his words, embarrassed discomfort blooming on his face as he sought to defend himself from the scandalising stares. It didn’t help that, all throughout John’s bumbling defence, Sherlock continued to call the name out, with increasing fervour.

Sherlock's muffled voice upstairs soon trailed into unintelligible moans, followed by keens of pleasurable pain, and the previously quiet Mitchell gave a long, hard gasp; the sounds then stilled, though tiny shards of their conversation floated downstairs - 'blood', 'had forgotten', 'adore', 'too long'.

A short while later, as George attempted to do dishes, he turned the tap but was met with only a rusted squeak; meaning the upstairs shower was in use. With a sigh, he leant his palms on the counter and turned his eyes up to the ceiling, not really wanting to imagine what the two vampires were getting up to in the bathroom - though their continued groans left little to the imagination.

John, in the meantime, had long since finished his breakfast. He sat on one of two raggedy living room couches - alone. He limpy sat, leaning into the arm of the seat and wearily watching, what appeared to be, taped repeats of The Real Hustle. He raised his head from his palm, however, when he heard someone descend the staircase. Obviously, it was going to be the elated pair of vampires. With little-to-no expression, John glanced to them, then back to the television.

"The Hustle, then?" Mitchell asked as he flopped down onto the empty couch, tapping the seat beside him until Sherlock sat down beside him. The 'therapy' was clearly working; Sherlock hadn't looked so calm in weeks.

John sat up a little, clearing his throat. “Uh, yeah.” He quietly responded, before raising his tone to one of humble importance. “Listen, I never really thanked you for.. yesterday, Mitchell. I’m really thankful you were on-hand.”

"'s fine, really," Mitchell responded, with a smile and dismissive shake of his head. "Really now, there was no alternative." He said rather pointedly, showing John that he was very serious in that aspect. "I've done it before wit’ George; we've had some close calls. No one wants that."

“No, god no.” John gravely agreed, sitting back again. His eyes flickered over to Sherlock, sitting beside Mitchell; he could smell them, quite strongly. It took a great amount of restriction to ignore the combined scents of blood and sweat, radiating off them, even through the layer of soap that attempted to mask it. As inconspicuously as he could manage, John turned his face away and pretended to be watching the television again, raising his palm to his face and breathing into his sleeve.

Sherlock noticed right away, cocking his head slightly.

"Oh, _fuck..._ " Mitchell stood up quickly, garnering attention from both other parties. By way of explanation, he shook his head. "I'm meant t' be at work..." With an apologetic glance, he rushed upstairs, leaving John and Sherlock to their own devices while he shuffled around in his room, muttering to himself as he tried to find clothes - a far harder task than usual, seeing as for the last week his room had been rather ravaged by a Sherlock who clearly didn't care about the state of the floor-based wardrobe.

Mitchell gone, Sherlock turned his attention back to John. "What is it?"

Nose still in his sleeve, John stifled a response, “I can smell you.”

" _Smell_ me?" Sherlock repeated, glaring, confused for a moment until it clicked. "Oh. The shower didn't do much, then." He couldn't help but smirk a little; it had been a damn good morning, and he couldn't find the sense to be even slightly ashamed or embarrassed.

“No, it probably did. Just my sense of smell is a bit- “ John abruptly stopped, as he caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s self-satisfied smirk and was reminded of his earlier humiliation. He sat forward again, with annoyed assertion. “Actually, no. What the bloody hell was all that about?”

"What was _what_ all about? Mitchell and I... Surely that’s obvious enough? I would be very surprised if you needed to be told about the ‘birds and the bees’; makes me wonder what you actually get up to with your girlfriends."

“ _No_ , I mean all that ‘John’ business. Calling my name out?”

"Calling your.. ?" Sherlock stopped, then swallowed a laugh, playing back the morning's events. "John," he said, trying his best to keep a straight face, "Mitchell is his _surname_."

A look of surprise crossed John’s face, as he quickly came to understand: there was more than one ‘John’ in Sherlock’s life. His forehead wrinkled, as his brow rose high, apparently bowled over by this fact - and embarrassed, for not having come to such a simple conclusion earlier. “Oh, right. Well then.. um, that explains it.” He muttered, looking away in his moment of ridicule; he was quite aware that Sherlock was mentally snickering at the assumption.

"I'm not sure what to make of the idea that you thought I was thinking of you. Is it odd or sweet? Honoured?" As John carried on thinking, and finally talked, the smirk finally dropped as John asked the question Sherlock had been avoiding since he arrived.

"Are you and Mitchell...?”

"I'm not sure. We're... 'close', but I don't know beyond that. We've not discussed honeymoon plans, if that's what you are implying."

John glanced back to him, with a new look of engaged attention on his face. He waited before speaking, lines of care forming on his brow as he thought back to every time Sherlock had spoken of Mitchell prior to their reunion; fond, but so anxious. They had a history, a long and detailed one at that, and this (whatever _this_ was), all seemed to be moving so quickly. The potential for disaster was nothing short of worrying.

“Okay,” He finally said, before he could mull over it for too long. Nodding, with semi-casual acceptance, he expressed his concern quite gently, “Just be careful, Sherlock.”

"Neither of us need to worry about prophylactics, John," Sherlock said with mock sternness, but it was clear he understood John's meaning when he sighed, sinking into the couch, glancing upstairs to check Mitchell hadn't come down yet. "He's the love of my life, you know." He uttered, and even smiled a little - even if it was tainted, with every memory that statement brought. "I think it may work this time."

Looking vacantly at the television, John paused again, before slightly nodding, “He probably is, yeah,” he uttered, quieter than he had intended; suddenly, the unsavoury smell in the air didn’t seem to matter anymore. There was another moment of long thought, where John unconsciously worried the edge of the sofa with restless fingernails. He looked back to Sherlock. “Are you thinking of staying?”

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly, his brows drawing together as he struggled to understand John's reaction. "Why does it trouble you that I might be happy?"

Sighing, John shook his head in mild disbelief of his reaction, and glanced down, fingers continuing to rub and pluck at the arm of the seat. “That’s not what I said.”

"You're scratching Mitchell's couch because you're worried I'll stay with him. I'm surprised at your reaction, John. You're the one who encouraged me, well, _forced_ me, to come back here. Now it's gone better than I ever could have hoped, and you're concerned. Why?"

In a typically defensive manner, John withdrew his hand the minute Sherlock drew attention to it, and balled it up on his lap. He sat quietly, digesting words as they came, and found that his friend was correct in places. John _had_ forced Sherlock to go to Bristol, he had given him absolutely no say in the matter. Sherlock had needed the help getting off the blood, and a better mentor. While John was glad that Sherlock was making significant progress, he never imagined that this would happen. Now that it had, he had to accept that he had done this, and should something go wrong, it would be his doing.

John raised his eyes, large with sentiment, and parted his lips to speak. However, he was stopped by fast-shuffling bootsteps coming down the stairs and a hasty interruption, in the form of an Irish accent.

"Really sorry, Lock, but I'm already late. I'll be back in about... seven hours? You be alright, right?"

Sherlock nodded but stood up, stopping Mitchell briefly before he could walk any further towards the door. "I'll come with you."

Mitchell glanced from Sherlock to John, hesitating for just a moment, his need to get to work overriding the urge to remain where he was and sort out whatever was going on between the friends. "'course." Sherlock grabbed his coat from the back of the door, pulling it on, along with his scarf. "See you later, John," Sherlock said neutrally, as if the entire previous exchange hadn't happened, waiting for a moment as Mitchell pulled on his gloves.

John bowed his head and slightly grimaced, choking on whatever it was he was going to say. Following Sherlock’s lead, he offered a single nod to the both of them, unaware of his tightly-fisted fingers writhing in his palm. “See you.” He said, calmly, then looked back to the television screen. Mitchell hesitated again, but decided against hosting an intervention and opened the door. The couple stepped outside, walking down the road towards the hospital, a snippet of conversation floating through the open lounge room window.

_"So, what was t'at about, then?"_


	12. Chapter 12

That evening, John showered to rid himself of the wolf-stink and began to make his preparations, starting with the train times. He decided, shortly after Sherlock left with Mitchell, that there was absolutely no point in his staying. The whole journey had been more or less wasted, and he mentally scolded himself for risking exposure unnecessarily. If Sherlock wanted to stay, John could not stop him - he was old enough to make his own decisions.

All the same, that wouldn’t stop John from missing him.

Sherlock himself had arrived back at the house some hours earlier, presumably after leaving Mitchell to do his shift. He didn’t speak a word to anyone - just grabbed one of the many cups of tea lying around, and locked himself in Mitchell’s bedroom. John had poised himself outside the door for a short while, hesitating to knock. He eventually decided, after much deliberation, that it might be best to give Sherlock his space - wait for the smoke to clear, as it were. So, John left him alone and occupied himself elsewhere.

Standing outside another bedroom door with an arm of clean, folded clothes, John knocked and waited. Moments later, George answered, squinting and adjusting his glasses. Clearly he had been asleep; when he realised, John apologised, “Sorry, I’m disturbing you.” George incoherently spoke in the midst of a yawn, something to do with regularly falling asleep after his shifts at work, to which John nodded and offered him the clothes. “Here. Thanks again, for borrowing me them.”

“Oh, right.” George spoke in a tone of light surprise, accepting his shirt and jeans back. He noted that they were no longer muddy, and smelt of fragrant washing powder. “You.. um, figured out how to work our washing machine then.”

“Wasn’t that hard,” John remarked, with a small smile. “I do most of the washing at home, or.. I did, at least.” He cleared his throat, dropping the smile. “Sherlock’s planning on staying, you know. Here, with Mitchell.” With a sigh, George folded his arms and leant against the doorframe, thinking about the grief their landlord would give them over a third (well, fourth) occupant.

John misinterpreted his reaction, and quickly asked, “You don’t think it’s a good idea?”

“What? Oh, no, I was just thinking about..” He waved his hand, dismissing his thoughts for the time being. “Just got to let them get on with it, I-I suppose. Only natural, wanting to be with the person you care about.”

In a sullen moment, John was reflective, before he nodded and began to turn away, “Goodnight then, George.” He began to walk, then slowed down as a slowly-circulating thought came back into his head. Before George had the chance to close his door, John turned back around and took a halting step forward. “Actually, wait. Could I speak to you, for a minute?”

George blinked at him, to which John elaborated. “Sorry, it’s just that I don’t meet a lot of werewolves. Any, in fact. I just.. I don’t know, there’s no one else I can talk to about it. No one that knows how it is, I mean.”

There was a pause, as George bowed his head to think. He purposely avoided others like himself - out of fear, mostly. He was sure that he wouldn’t like what he found, and so chose to distance himself from the idea as much as he could; keep it separate. Though now, faced with a fellow lycan, he could hardly turn him away, and John had yet to be a threat. George opened his door fully, responding to John’s request with an acquiescing smile.

“Yeah, sure. We can talk.”

John shuffled a little in place, at first unsure of what to ask, now that he had the opportunity. Gradually, they slipped into comfortable conversation in George’s doorway, and it soon became apparent that they both had something to offer each other - from coping advice, to management techniques. They stood for almost an hour, discussing how they wrapped their lives around the monthly change and the amount of times they had vomited up bits of dead animal. They chuckled at times, mostly to rise above just how grim their subject matter actually was. Eventually, John brought another question to the fore, “Can I ask how long you’ve been-- “

“A year, now.” George quickly cut in. “Yeah, I was on holiday, and went for a walk in the night. Not one of my.. best ideas. What about you?”

There was a pause in the conversation, where John seemed to be thinking hard about George’s answer; for some reason, he thought it might have been longer than one year. Just twelve transformations. He hesitated for a moment. “Nearly twenty-four years.”

“ _What?_ ” George’s eyes almost popped out of his head, his assumptions having been exactly the opposite. His voice rose high,“Twenty-f... John, you- you could be the oldest surviving werewolf... ever!”

John shook his head, chuckling, though made somewhat uneasy by the enormity of George’s reaction. “No, no. That’s ridiculous. I’m only thirty-five.”

“What, so you were.. you were attacked when you were a kid?”

Again, he shook his head. “No, wasn’t attacked. I sort of inherited it. I was twelve, the first time I changed.” It had made puberty that bit more ‘interesting’, that much could be said.

George continued to stare at him, in complete disbelief. “That’s... wait, inherited?" He paused briefly, making a mental note to ask Mitchell later. "But, wow, twenty-four years... I can’t believe _you’re_ coming to _me_ for advice. You’re practically an OAP.”

“Yeah, easy.” John huffed, half-joking. Though the remainder of the conversation was light-hearted for the most part, the sheer incredulity of George’s reaction stayed with him a long while after he walked away from George’s door and let him go to bed. He couldn’t be ‘old’, in terms of werewolf years. There had to be others like him, who were born with it. Others that were far older than him. Perhaps John was ridiculous for taking George’s reaction to heart - he decided that much, later that night, as he lay down on the couch to sleep.

“ _‘Oldest werewolf’_... stupid.” He muttered to himself, pulling the blanket up his chest.


	13. Chapter 13

Mitchell wanted to be good. 

Haunted by his past actions, his 'going clean', and the mental trauma it caused seemed like compensation paid. Sherlock, on the other hand, wanted to go clean largely because he wanted to prove that he could. He'd far less blood on his hands than Mitchell, and had no trouble sleeping through the night; his conscience, though not clear, was subdued. Having no genuine desire to change made it difficult. Still, he would try. And if not for John, as he had originally, then for Mitchell.

Sherlock emerged from Mitchell's room after a largely restless sleep. Mitchell had arrived home very early in the morning, and Sherlock had spent the hours thereafter lying awake in Mitchell's arms as the older vampire slept through. As soon as they'd been separated, Sherlock felt the hunger come back, without the immediate distraction that his kin served up. He'd hurried home, not wanting to fail on his first night without personal supervision. He could do this, he reminded himself, repeatedly.

Though he still didn't believe it yet.

Once he was in the hallway, the sound from downstairs was clear. Frowning slightly, Sherlock fixed his shirt, heading downstairs into the sitting room, a look of concern sticking on his face. He looked at John, awake and fully dressed, as he folded a pair of jeans over his arm; his brows drawing together as the scene wrote itself out with complete clarity.

"You're leaving," Sherlock stated, far more an observation than any guise of a question.

John’s attention shifted, and with a long sigh, he placed the jeans into his bag and stood upright. “Um, yeah. I was going to speak to you last night, but you were busy,” he said, inelegantly. “Trains are back on now.”

"I didn't realise you were planning on leaving so soon," Sherlock replied, still confused and slightly downtrodden in expression. "Is this because of Mitchell and I?" he asked after a moment, already quite sure of the answer. 

A moment passed, where John merely stood, before he turned to continue on with his packing. Picking up a shirt, he held it to his chest and started to fold it, apparently calm. “You can stay if you want to, Sherlock, but I’ve got my job, things going on at home.” There was a tinge of bitterness towards the latter end of his speech, as he reminded himself, once again, that he shouldn’t have come to Bristol in the first place.

"... Of course."  Sherlock sounded less than convinced. "Then why did you come in the first place?"

John quietly uttered, “Thought you might have needed me.”

Sherlock was quiet for a few moments. Lost for what to say in response, he took a deep breath and exhaled. "Travel safely, John."


	14. Flashback.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John‘s first transformation happened when he was twelve years old.

John‘s first transformation happened when he was twelve years old.  
  
He was asleep in his bed, with the height of his concerns being unfinished homework and a nuisance of a little sister, when his body began to unconsciously flinch; quick, spasm-like movements that quickly woke him. As he craned his eyes half-open and squinted against the faint moonlight shining through his bedroom curtains, he let out a whine, as his body flooded with pain – pain that increased quickly, it felt like he was being so tightly squeezed, he could barely breathe.  
  
When John tried to stand, he doubled over and collapsed onto the floor, throwing his arms around himself. Coughing and gagging, he did what any frightened child would do, “M-Mum! _Mum_!”  
  
Ms Watson rushed to her son’s aid in a matter of moments, just as he started to scream. She stood in the doorway, petrified as she watched his limbs begin to snap and reform; cried out in horror as another unbearable wave shot through him and he slammed his palms against the floor. His breathing became heavy and raspy, and his chest rapidly inflated and deflated. He arched his back, vertebras pushing up under his skin, and looked up at his mother with yellow-hued eyes, begging her to make it stop... until his vocal cords tore and rendered him silent.  
  
Instinctively, Ms Watson forced herself out of her frozen state of shock and sought to protect her other child -  Harriet, who was sound asleep in the next room. There was nothing she could do for John. She ran, leaving the terrified boy and grabbing Harry from her bed.  
  
Running down the stairs, with a half-awake and whimpering Harry in tow, she stopped only to unlock the back door. As she desperately fumbled with the house keys, Harry began to cry as she asked what was happening, and what those ‘scary’ sounds were, coming from upstairs. They fled into the garden and bolted themselves inside the shed, just as John’s transformation neared completion; he managed to crawl a small way into the corridor and silently scream for help one last time, before his human consciousness gave out.  
  
Harry and her mother remained in the garden shed for the rest of the night.

 


	15. Chapter 15

Once he was settled back into Baker Street, it took a few days before John got back into any kind of routine. The emptiness and silence of the flat was… unpleasant. It hit him every morning, when he came downstairs from his bedroom; every time he saw Sherlock’s violin in its open case, propped up against the wall near the music stand, with the sheet music still in it. Every time his eyes travelled to the emptiness that was Sherlock's chair.

It felt like he was grieving – which, he always reminded himself, was ridiculous. Sherlock wasn’t dead (figuratively speaking), he was in Bristol. They still kept in text-contact, though it never lead to proper conversation. John usually had to call Mitchell to see how he was doing, with the blood-detox and everything.

 At first, John had a suspicion that Sherlock wouldn’t permanently stay in Bristol. No rhyme or reason, just a suspicion, and a little bit of personal hope, though both came into strong doubt as the second week came to a close. John sat down in his chair by the unlit fireplace, staying there for a long time. Was it selfish to want him home? Of course it was, seeing as Sherlock had told him quite clearly that Mitchell made him happy. John had no right to deny him happiness – he was just a flatmate, after all.

There was a tiny knock, accompanied by a familiar ‘Oo-oo’, and a pause before the door to the flat slowly opened. Mrs Hudson, the landlady, poked her head around the door, to which John turned in his chair and acknowledged her with a warm, if strained, smile. She stepped inside, carrying a small crock pot; the scent of roast meat and gravy wafting into the room.

"I don't mean to interrupt but I made far too much. Thought you might do well with a good hearty meal, love." She let herself through to the kitchen, setting the pot on the counter, before fussing over the half-full cups of old tea, busying herself for a few moments while she talked. "So, things have been a bit quiet, have they?"

Rubbing the corner of his forehead, John sighed. He could see what she was doing, it wasn’t the first time she had dropped in after ‘making too much’; he lowly responded. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson. I’m fine.”

"Oh, I know you are, dear. Just can’t have this lot going to waste." She offered a firm smile, keeping up appearances although they both knew her visit had nothing to do with food. Leaving the now-drained cups in the sink, she trailed back into the living room, picking at invisible lint as she sat on the couch. "So, have you heard from our Sherlock recently?"

John thought back with a slight frown; it had been days since he heard from Sherlock directly, even then, it had only been a brief exchange of texts. Little had been given away other than the constant use of the word ‘fine’. “Not recently, no.” He said, on the tail-end of thought. “Barely get to talk to him, anyway. I have to call his... well, I guess it’s his boyfriend now.”

Mrs Hudson nodded slightly, holding back from leaning over and patting John on the knee. “I miss him too,” she said simply, breathing out a small, patient sigh. “I'm sure he misses you, even if he's a bit too distracted to know it.”

John’s ears started to turn red at the effusive comment. He cleared his throat a little. “I’m not... I am happy for him, Mrs Hudson.” He said, with a hint of insistence. “This whole flatshare thing wasn’t going to be forever, anyway.”

"Vivian, please. Or Viv, if you like. ‘Mrs Hudson’ ages me terribly," she said with a laugh, then offered a smile, letting John's blatant denial pass without comment. "Sherlock has a way of getting under your skin, I know. You mustn't let yourself feel bad over getting attached."

With a brief glance, John stored her request and continued, “I just worry. He’s got these... issues, and he’s barely been back with this Mitchell guy five minutes. At least when he was causing chaos here, I could do something about it.”

"We both worry, don’t we? But if he wants to be with ‘this Mitchell’, there's no force on heaven or earth that can stop him. And you never know, Mitchell might be able to help. Sherlock trusts him, at least. I don't like seeing you moping like this though, dear. It's not healthy."

“But that’s just it, Mrs Hud... Viv,” he pointedly responded, shaking his hands out between his knees to emphasise his point. “Sherlock loves him, or he thinks he does, so of course he’s gonna trust him. You know what it’s like, when you love someone so much that you can’t see what could possibly go wrong?”

She nodded with gentle sympathy and understanding. "I do, dear." She was contemplative for a few moments, then nodded to herself again with renewed resolve. "But if it all falls down, you just have to be there for him when he needs you. It's the best we can do. It's hard, but if you push, he'll push back twice as hard."

Avoiding her kindly eyes, John stared at the floor and dejectedly wrung his hands together between his knees, knowing that she was right; if Sherlock Holmes had his mind set, there was no fighting him. John would just have to have a little trust, wait, and see what happened. “Yeah,” he slowly nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. Got to let him do what he needs to.”

“Naturally.” The landlady stood, voice purposely lightened as she brought the conversation to a close. She placed a caring hand on John’s back, then walked past him, into the kitchen. With trembling fingers, she lifted the crock pot into the fridge, lingering for a moment as she noticed the worrying lack of stocking up. “Hm. It’s a shame Sherlock doesn’t pop in much, though. I would like to know how he’s getting on, and he always did like my casseroles.”

They exchanged a smile-and-nod goodbye before Mrs Hudson returned downstairs, but for some reason, John remained thinking about the last thing she said. It shouldn’t have, but it slightly rubbed him the wrong way. In all the time Sherlock had been living in 221b, John couldn’t ever recall him accepting cooking from their landlady (John barely recalled him eating in general); such a statement felt inconsistent.

  With far more weighty matters in mind, he quickly let it go, and got up to make yet another cup of tea.


	16. Chapter 16

Later that night, Mrs Hudson returned to her own flat after paying John a second visit - disguised as a reminder of the upcoming rental payment, when really, she just went up to see if he had actually touched the pot of dinner she had left. She did worry for the doctor - she worried for both her boys, and John’s concerns had only fuelled her own. Of course, she would pat his back and tell him to have faith, she even believed herself at one point. If only Sherlock would pay a visit, make a call - something, just so he wouldn’t disappear into the distance.

She stood quietly with gentle dismay over the sink, as she took care of the last remaining dishes. Quite soon, as the hour approached ten, she was brought out of her meditative state when she heard a sharp, persistent knock at the front door. Hearing no one come downstairs to answer, she muttered an unfavourable comment about having guests round at that hour as she dried her hands on a tea-towel, then wrapped her housecoat tighter around herself in preparation to answer the door. 

“Alright, hang on a tic.” Mrs Hudson called, shuffling through the hall on slippered feet and tip-toeing to unbolt. She opened the door just a tad, and uttered a gasp.

There, standing in the night, was Sherlock.

"Good, I didn't wake you,” he offered with a small, weary smile as the door opened further, breathing out a low sigh as Mrs Hudson registered his presence. She trembled with the chilly air pouring in, but joy and relief danced across her face at the sight of him.

Reaching forward, she groped for his shoulder and started to hurriedly usher him inside, “Oh, get in, get in. You’ll catch your death,” she exclaimed, fussing over him as he crossed the threshold into the house. Chuckling as she closed the door behind them, Sherlock looked down on her, smiling fondly in good humour.

"I don't think there's much chance of that, do you?"

She overrode his joke with a ‘tssk’, fixing the front of his coat, her face flushing with concern as she did. “Oh, look at you. You look terrible, and with you being gone all these weeks, I didn’t know what to think. A phone call goes a long way, Sherlock Holmes.” She gently scolded him, then collapsed back into relief after she had said her piece. “I expect you’ll be wanting to go up to John?”

Sherlock bowed his head slightly as be was berated, but smiled slightly by the time she got to his name. It dropped, though, when she mentioned John. With a soft exhale, he shook his head, re-adjusting his grip on the duffel bag John had leant him for the trip. "I'd rather not. With everything, with Mitchell..." He paused, choosing his words wisely. "John doesn't understand it. I'd rather not have to explain myself tonight."

The lady’s eyes dropped down to the bag, taking it as a god-given sign that he was planning to stay. She didn’t ask questions nor immediately inform him that John would want to see him. Instead, she turned her face up and gave him a smile. “Would you like a cuppa, love?”

He nodded, leaning down and forward to kiss her forehead in thanks. "Tea would be perfect, Viv. Thank you."

Inclining her forehead, Mrs Hudson paused a moment, then gave his arm a little touch, as indication to follow. Once inside her home, she began to putter around and fix the tea. On the table, was a partially-eaten Victoria Sponge, that she had bought on offer at Tesco earlier that day. “Here, cut yourself a piece of that.” She waved her finger at it, as she busied herself. “I can tell when you’ve not eaten.” Not even bothering to argue, having known her long enough to know it wasn't worth the effort, he sat at the table.

"You do remember that I don't actually need to eat? And of course I've not eaten, I've spent the last few weeks with Mitchell. If there's no one else around, it doesn't seem worth the hassle." Nevertheless, he didn't stop her as she brought over a small plate, setting it down in front of him complete with cake fork. He looked at the cutlery, then looked back up at her, a curious smile on his lips. "You still have these?"

She returned shortly, with a mug and a smile. “Oh yes. Well, it was my ‘something borrowed’...” Giving Sherlock his tea, she seated herself in the chair opposite and covered her mouth, as she emitted a light giggle. “Oh, how furious my sister was when she didn’t get it back.”

"Agatha wasn't deserving of nice silverware. She never liked me," Sherlock noted as he cut himself a small slice of cake.

Mrs Hudson laughed again, waving her fingers as she tried to regain a memory. “What was it you said? 'She’ll only end up pawning it so that she can buy tickets to The Ed Sullivan Show, and throw her garter at Ringo Starr'? She went red!”

"I was right," Sherlock countered. "She pawned your mother's eternity ring for that exact reason."

“Poor Ringo.” She sighed away a last chuckle at the reminiscence, before she folded her hands over her lap and looked back to Sherlock. Her expression gentled as she watched him, looking so tired and downbeat. Even if they could still share a little laugh, there was still a reason behind his return, and it was probably tearing him up. “Sherlock, love. Are you alright?"

Sherlock looked at her grimly, skewing his mouth momentarily as he was put on the spot.

"The situation with Mitchell and I is complicated, as always. It was good, to pretend for a while, but he's clean, and I'm not. My being there makes it nearly impossible for him to stay that way, and if we both slip..." He shook his head again, letting the clear implication follow in silence. "It's better this way."

Tilting her head, she smiled sadly as she listened. Her smile faltered at certain points, understanding to the best of knowledge that if a vampire (or anyone) were to slip up, there would be consequences. There wasn’t a lot Mrs Hudson could say for him, with his heart so clearly broken, but she would be glad to give him an attentive ear. “You’ve always a home here, Sherlock.” She gave his arm a soft squeeze. “We can’t always give you what you need, but there are people here who care about you.”

He nodded once more, leaning towards her and resting his head against hers for a while, relaxing somewhat as she put one arm over his shoulder. "You care far too much about people who don't deserve it, Viv," he said lowly, drinking in the gentle affection from her as she rubbed his shoulder through his coat.

“Oh love, there’s no such thing as ‘not deserving it’,” she pulled back a little to look at Sherlock’s face, and pushed back his hair with her aged, trembling fingers. “You want what the rest of us want, and if it doesn’t end up being with Mitchell, it’ll be with someone else. Very human, I promise you.”

Sherlock scoffed, nuzzling against her hair before sitting upright again. "I haven't been human for a very long time. Right now, I'm..." He stopped, sighing again. "Right now I'm just tired."

Mrs Hudson slid her arm back but kept her hand on his shoulder, looking at him still. He didn’t need to tell her that he was tired; she could see it, on that face that hadn’t aged one day in over fifty years. “Go lie down, then.”

He looked over, her soft expression winning him over until he nodded, leaving the nuptial cutlery on the plate with the barely touched cake as he stood. "Will you stay with me?" Sherlock asked, waiting for her response before moving from the kitchen.

Smiling sadly, she looked up at him from where she was sat. “After all these years, you’ll still take me to bed? Even though I’m an old dear?” She closed her eyes a moment, still smiling, then let out a little sigh.

"Of course," Sherlock countered, smiling warmly and trailing one hand down her arm. "You're a beautiful woman, Viv. Always were, always will be."

Carefully, she then placed her hand on her bad hip and stood, taking Sherlock’s hand and guiding him through her home, into her bedroom. Her intention had been to sit with him, but as he lay down, she found herself lying next to him. Her taste in decor had hardly changed, and it was oddly comforting to come back to such a familiar place, especially after the stark contrast of his few weeks with Mitchell. "You still have that heinous old blanket," he noted, eyeing a multi-coloured hand knitted monstrosity at the foot of the bed, shifting down the bed until his head rested on Mrs Hudson's shoulder.

After a moment's quiet, he shuffled again slightly, moving a few inches closer and wrapping one arm loosely around her waist as his body started to relax, wrecked after his time away. "Thank you," he said quietly, not specifying what for. She hummed in response, kissing his hair softly as she watched his eyes close, his breath matching hers as they lay together. She lost track of how long it took, but he slept eventually and she followed shortly after, sharing whispers of soft nothings in their dreams of less complicated times.


	17. Chapter 17

Swiping his chiming phone from the bedside table, John squinted and flicked the alarm off with his thumb. In the midst of autumn, the early hours of the morning remained dark. He switched on a lamp and swung his legs over the side of his bed, staring blankly at the floor for a moment. After groaning out another yawn, he rose out of bed to prepare for work.

 The locum shifts at the clinic worked well around his condition - he could work when he chose to, which was always the middle of the month, and still earned healthy pay, thanks to being more than a bit overqualified. It was mundane, but it worked. Having that shred of normality gave him a certain positivity, even if normality was such a flexible concept. As John pulled on his housecoat, he thought only of his day’s worth of appointments - nice and humdrum.

Venturing from his bedroom, he descended the staircase and entered the flat. After he turned on the light, he realised that he was not the only one there - as evidenced by a quiet and contemplative Sherlock, sitting by the fireplace in his usual seat. John stopped in the centre of the room, blinking in surprise, before he chanced speaking. “Sherlock?”

"Mrs Hudson is still sleeping, I didn't want to risk waking her.” Sherlock didn't rise from his chair, only glancing up at John briefly before diverting his attention back to the book in his hand. “I hadn't officially moved out. I hope my being back here isn't an imposition."

John’s shoulders seemed to visibly relax when Sherlock spoke, “No, no... not at all.” He softly dismissed, starting to move towards his own chair. “I just thought you were in Bristol now.”

Pointedly not meeting John's eye-line, Sherlock half-shrugged. "Yet here I am."

Sitting down, John knotted his hands together on his lap and waited for a continuation on the uninformative answer. When there wasn’t one, he cleared his throat and said, “Right. Did something happen, are you okay?”

 With a glance to one side, Sherlock frowned slightly, rather wishing he'd elected to stay in bed rather than face John’s questions. "Mitchell and I decided it would be better for us to stay apart."

Sinking his head, John let out a thin nasal exhale and looked down at his lap. Evidently, something had happened. He looked up again, and repeated his earlier question, “Are you okay, Sherlock?”

"I've been better," he admitted after a moment, swallowing, eyes still on the book despite clearly not actually reading it. "We... I'm not good for him right now."

“What does that mean?”

"It means he's better than I am." Sherlock let his eyes drift down to his lap, shifting uncomfortably in his seat under the heat of John's impending judgment. "If I stayed, I'd have dragged him down with me."

John thought hard for a moment, as Sherlock volunteered very little. Debating between this and that, he eventually leant forward a bit, resting his forearms on his knees and looking, once again, at the floor. It could only be the blood - the only thing that could yank Sherlock and Mitchell apart. With Mitchell being so religiously clean from it, there was only one conclusion.

“He couldn’t get you clean.”

"He tried. It worked, for a while, as long as I was distracted enough. Eventually the distraction grew less and less effective, until it was pretty clear there was no point. If I'd stayed, I would have slipped despite best efforts, and I sincerely doubt he'd be able to stay clean if I wasn't. So... I came back." Sherlock sat quietly for a few moments, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together as he contemplated, before finally speaking again, his face stiff in a mask of non-expression, hardly hiding a depth of emotion just under the surface. "I'm sorry. I know you wanted me to be better than this."

Listening, John saw a hint of defensiveness in the set of Sherlock’s shoulders, and the carefully blank mask on his face. He worried the corner of his bottom lip, disputing within himself whether or not to offer his personal view yet. Sherlock hadn’t been ready to talk, and John was in no position to bring him down any further. In the heavy minute that followed, he kneaded his hands together, before he tentatively asked, “Just get back this morning, did you?”

Sherlock had to stop himself from heaving a sigh of relief as John changed the subject. It may have been blatant and utterly transparent, but it saved him from continuing the conversation all the same. "No, I came back last night. I'm not sure what time. It was late."

John frowned a little, “I didn’t see you.”

Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement before continuing. "I stayed with Mrs Hudson last night."

At that, John looked at him with such perplexity, and saw he was completely serious. “Sorry, Mrs Hudson?” He thought back, to the landlady’s little passing comments that had thrown him. Now that Sherlock was doing it too, there was clearly something going on that John did not know about. He wasn’t even sure of what he suspected them of, so couldn’t help but cringe a little when he asked, “I’m missing something, aren’t I?”

"'Missing something'?"

John attempted to elaborate, not without embarrassment. “Well... she’s just been saying a few things, about you, and you were with her last night. I’m not an expert, but it’s not exactly the usual landlady-tenant fare.”

"I wasn't 'with' her biblically last night, if that's what you're implying," Sherlock replied, straight faced as he raised an eyebrow. “But yes, I'll grant you 'unusual'."

“You’re really playing that ‘vague’ card, aren’t you?”

"Why didn't you just ask her?" He retorted, before sighing, deciding to relent. "Vivian and I were married, once."

John’s eyes flew open and locked onto Sherlock, looking on with sheer disbelief. Whatever he had been expecting, it hadn’t been that. The shock was surprisingly momentary, falling then into deep concern. It was so easy to forget, that Sherlock’s youth was only exterior. John hadn’t even thought to ask his age. Not quite able to shake away his awe yet, his brows rose high up his forehead. “I... had no idea.”

"Well we can't exactly discuss it with company. People might talk. Not to mention, it was a long time ago. We don't speak of it all that often these days."

“No, ‘course not.” John nodded, a little bit shaken. “My god.”

"And because if anyone did find out, I imagine they would react like this." Sherlock added pointedly.

Raising his face at the pointed comment, John quickly came to realise that his astonishment was not as discreet as he had initially thought. “No, I didn’t mean... “ He apologetically said, trailing off as he disappeared into a whirl of possibilities. Their history, as John knew it, had been merely favour. “Didn’t she have another husband, and you said you had him executed?”

"Yes. He came after me."

“He came after you?”

"He was her second husband. I was her first."

John slowly nodded. “So that had nothing to do with you having him executed?”

"I found out he was hurting her, I made certain he stopped. Just because we're not technically married anymore doesn't mean I'll let her come to harm."

As he registered the facts, John brought his expression down to one of quiet acceptance. He could believe that much. Glancing back to him, John was caught off-guard by the depths of emotion that haunted Sherlock’s face. It had to be hard for him, talking about it, and something had to have happened down the line to end the marriage. That, on top of Mitchell and all the messy vampire business, Sherlock’s head had to be full to bursting.

Clearing his throat, and the overall subject matter, John rose to his feet and looked over to the clock, “Look, I’ve got to get ready for work, but... “ he approached Sherlock’s armchair, and in genuine way of subtle compassion, gave his friend a light touch on the arm. “It’s good to have you back, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded, adjusting his grip on the novel in his hand. "It's good to be back, John."

He wasn't sure if he believed it or not, yet, but hopefully the expression of sentiment would be appreciated.


	18. Chapter 18

After work, John stopped by at their local chip shop and bought a big bag of chips for dinner. He learnt a long time ago not to get Sherlock his own, as he never ate it (didn’t slot into his ‘palette’), but yet he would pick at John’s whenever he so facied. While Sherlock’s unconventional diet had conformed slightly since they started living together, it was rare that he would eat an entire meal willingly. If he ate, it was minimal and usually from John’s plate.

At first, John put it down to stubbornness, but he soon came to see that conventional food simply didn’t sustain him - not in the same way that blood did; it didn’t physically support him, so he just didn’t bother. On the way home, John almost walked past the chippy with that same thought in mind, until he considered that Sherlock’s blood intake was dramatically less now. He needed to get some nutrition in him somehow, and a few chips weren’t going to kill him.

Ascending the staircase, John entered the flat through the kitchen door and put the bag down on the table. “Got dinner,” he called, as he shrugged off his coat and walked through to the sitting room. Sherlock was lying on the couch, composed and tranquil-looking, with his hands together and chin rested on top of his fingertips. John waited a moment, he wouldn’t have been surprised if Sherlock had been like that all day. “Hello?”

After a few seconds, apparently satisfied that he'd completed the train of thought he's been following, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked over, taking John in briefly. Still reclined, he shifted a little, letting his hands fall to rest on his stomach. "Have you forgotten again that I don't share your predilection for food?" He raised an eyebrow, then relaxed again, looking more calm than he had in some time. "Mrs Hudson's gone over to Mrs Turner's for the evening. 'Girl's night in', apparently."

“Oh, lovely.” John said, letting the jab go with only a slight lip purse. He quickly brightened his tone. “You look... mellowed.”

"Mellowed?"

No sooner had he said it, John’s expression redirected to one of oncoming wariness. Sherlock was certainly relaxed; too relaxed. He leant in a little, nostrils flaring, then let out a sharp exhale and dropped to a crouch, leaning close above Sherlock with his arm acting as a barricade. Sherlock stiffened, watching with bated breath as that hateful werewolf-nose did what it did best. John drew in one long sniff and quickly stood back up, almost nauseous with the heavy scent of blood radiating off him. “You’ve been killing.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. "I told you, I'm sorry," he said, his voice stiff and uncomfortable under the scrutiny. "I left Mitchell because I'm not as strong as he is. I thought that was clear."

John’s emotional reaction was surprisingly dulled, having digested that a strong backlash would greatly affect his friend. While he was far from pleased, he was quite controlled - he did, after all, know Sherlock’s reasons for returning. This should have been expected. “Okay,” he sighed out. “There really has to be another way around this, Sherlock. If you got caught... “

"I won't get caught," Sherlock said, insulted.

“You’re that certain?”

"I've been doing this for decades, John. Getting caught isn't the problem. A problem."

John struggled for what to think next, every worry thus far having been rebuffed. There was something so clearly amiss; Sherlock didn’t have that same pride, that same self-assurance, that he’d had the last time John caught him killing. He then said, in a smaller voice, “You don’t enjoy it anymore, do you? You’re not how you were last time.”

Sherlock let his eyes remain closed, not wanting whatever expression was on John's face right now. Pity, by the sound of it. "I spent the last month being indoctrinated, John. And I've told you before, when you stop, you... remember. Guilt isn't exactly good for whetting the appetite. Killing someone because I'm too weak to go against my nature isn't as enjoyable as killing because I want to."

For a moment, John was quiet and concentrating at his side, “You can’t do it without killing them?”

"I can, theoretically. But finding someone suitable is difficult at best, and the clan hates the idea unless the donor is under lock and key."

John looked closely at Sherlock as he spoke, schooling his features as he blinked his glance down. In thought, his face slightly darkened as he struggled with whatever thought was whirling in his brain. “What if it was someone you lived with?” He swiftly raised and tilted his head, attempting to mask the question as the most casual in the world.

Sherlock's forehead wrinkled as he parsed John's question, and he opened his eyes to read John's expression. Sincerity. "Mycroft wouldn't approve, but yes, that would be acceptable in theory. Why? Are you offering?"

John shook himself a little, trying to feel somewhat safer in the topic. “If it... helps, then yes. Guess I am.”

"It's not something you can offer lightly, John. It hurts, it's inherently high-risk, and it's... intimate."

John couldn’t help but give a derisive snort, “Come on, you think turning into a four-hundred pound beast doesn’t hurt?” he shook his head. “It makes sense though, when you think about it. I mend fairly quick, and I’m not about to go telling anyone, am I?”

"No, I don't suppose you would. It's not exactly in your best interest to spread the word." Sherlock exhaled, contemplating. "You're serious about this, aren't you? Question is, is it for my benefit, or theirs?"

“I want to help you.”

Sherlock was quiet for a long while, but eventually, after much thought, nodded. "Alright."

Nodding with him, John sunk his head and let out a shallow breath, as he started to unbutton his sleeve cuff. He then stopped and frowned in thought. He quickly realised that he knew very little about how one went about such a process, was it right to assume Sherlock would want his arm? John raised his face up, meekly asking Sherlock, “Um, where’s best for you?”

Eyebrow arched, Sherlock looked up at him curiously. "You want to do this now? I'd imagined you'd want to wait until I was mad with desperation."

“I’m not averse to you having a trial run. Just this once, though.”

"I suppose it makes sense to try while I'm still in my right mind," Sherlock agreed, cocking his head in acknowledgement. “To answer your question, if I have a choice, then jugular, always."

Giving a slightly shaky nod, John raised his hands and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt and parted it a little with a gentle push of his hand. He raised on his knees, spreading his arms out to indicate for Sherlock to move him as he needed. “How do you want me?”

At the rather delicious invitation, Sherlock turned and sat up in one swift movement. Sitting upright, he looked down on John, his head still slightly cocked as he surveyed him. Fluidly, Sherlock pulled one leg up, placing it on the opposite side of John's body, shifting forward on the couch until he was seated on the edge, one knee either side of John's torso.

  
"Come closer."


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Come closer."

Quietly ducking his head to clear his throat, John shuffled a little way forward, placing himself between Sherlock’s legs and, seeking some manner of support, set his hands tentatively on the vampire’s knees. He shut his eyes and inclined his head slightly sideways, arching his neck in preparation. Sherlock took a deep breath of his own, putting one hand on the back of John's neck, his thumb rubbing at the base of John's hairline. Licking his bottom lip briefly, his eyes clouded to black, fangs descending as he leant forward, mouthing at John's neck momentarily before bearing down.

John let out a small gasp, as he felt a sharpness break his skin and fasten onto him. His closed eyes screwed tighter shut, and his hands latched more firmly onto Sherlock’s knees. The pressure had an undoubted element of pain and the feeling of his own blood trickling down his neck was enough to make him squirm, but with every hissed-out breath, he took it as it came.

The moment was only brief, however, when Sherlock pulled back with a sharp, rasped outcry, gasping for breath with his black eyes blown open, clutching at his own throat with one hand. John's blood leaked from the corners of his mouth, but Sherlock made no attempt to catch it, instead gasping for breath between coarse, panicked coughs.

Collapsing back, John only allowed himself the luxury of shock for just seconds, before he sat back up and stared at Sherlock with alarmed eyes. “Shit, _shit_! What’s happening? _Sherlock!_ ” He gripped his arm, begging for some kind of instruction. Struggling to be coherent as his throat burned, Sherlock took a short breath of air. " _Myc-Mycroft, call Mycroft._ " His face contorted with the burning pain, his eyes returning to their normal colour as he watched John stand, before he collapsed back, writhing on the couch with an agonised exhale.

Wildly nodding, John’s mind raced to remember the number. He fled to the other end of the room, hurriedly lifting this and that on the fireplace before darting over to the table. Desperately sifting through papers and assorted rubbish, John (thankfully) soon came across a small scrap of paper, tucked under a stack of books. On it, Mycroft’s phone number (and a strict instruction to call _only_ in case of emergencies). With shaking hands, John grabbed his phone and stabbed the number in; turning to Sherlock and looking at him with haggard eyes as he waited for the ringing tone to pick up.

The ringing stopped quickly, and Mycroft answered, somehow sounding both bored and attentive at the same time. _"Yes, John?"_

Not bothering to ask how Mycroft knew who had called, John cut right to the dire point, “It’s Sherlock. I- I think he’s dying.”

_"What have you done to him?"_

“I didn’t do anything! Not... not on purpose!” He pleaded, desperation leaking into his voice. “He just drank from me, and then.. “

_"You **idiots** ,"_ came the immediate reply, followed by the sudden sound of movements in the background. _"You, I would expect it from, but for Sherlock to be so incredibly imbecilic - what a good influence you are, John."_

Though far from understanding, John knew he had little time to spend on elaboration, and his alarm reached it’s peak when Sherlock burst into deep, hacking coughs and wheezes. “Are you going to help him!?”

_"I'm on the way, but to be honest, I cannot guarantee that anything we do will save him,”_ Mycroft grimly responded. _“My congratulations, you've managed to condemn him to perpetual death, or even a fate worse. I'm sure his many, many victims will commend your noble act of justice."_

Almost in tears, John forcefully repeated, “I didn’t do anything!”

_"Werewolf blood, John, is one of limited means of killing our kind. The effects are similar to that of drinking corrosive. The most painful way to go, I'm sure you'll be pleased to hear."_

Shaking with pent up emotion that was ready to explode, John roared into the phone, “Oh _fuck you!_ ” In a sudden movement of blind rage, he threw his phone across the room and collapsed into heavy breaths. Taking a second to gather himself, he raked a hand through his sweat-dampened hair in frustration, Mycroft’s words harassing him like a flock of angered birds. “It’s toxic, it’s fucking toxic...“ he uttered to himself.

Suddenly lightheaded, he turned and staggered back to Sherlock, kneeling over him and uttering vague reassurances. Sherlock tried, but failed, to reply, instead coughing up dark blood, mingling with the still-wet remnants of John's own on his chin. Panting for breath, Sherlock looked up at him, pained and afraid. He tried to speak again, but his voice failed him, the acid-like blood having burned away at his larynx.

Before long, there was an authoritative knock at the front door, to which John leapt to his feet and hurried downstairs as fast as his legs would carry him. Breathing heavily, he unbolted the door and opened it up. On the step, was a very unimpressed Mycroft, wearing a pair of sunglasses and looking deathly pale in the afternoon light; John never noticed before, the barely-visible black veins underneath his skin.

“Invite them over the threshold, John. Do not interfere.” Mycroft ordered without further word, pushing past him and leaving behind two darkly-clad vampires, who did not attempt to disguise their looks of disgust.

Too afraid for Sherlock’s life to shy from the command, John uttered a, “Yeah, come in,” and stood aside as the three vampires barged up the stairs, into their flat. John remained downstairs, his head hung low with guilt. He wasn’t to know that werewolf blood was lethal to vampires, and his intentions had been nothing but good - but all the same, Mycroft’s words deeply bothered him. Within the same minute, Mycroft’s cronies emerged from the flat, supporting a barely-conscious Sherlock between them, and staggered down the stairs with him. John stepped forward with a mind to help, but he halted when he was promptly hissed at.

They left out the front door, heading for a waiting black car; Mycroft, who had been following behind a few paces, stopped at the foot of the staircase, glowering at John. “You’ll be joining him, won’t you? Primitive as your kind may be, surely you would grant your victim a final courtesy?”

Mycroft lingered, waiting for him to succumb to the lashings of blame and leave with them. While John was indeed riddled with guilt, he looked at the vampire with a complete lack of trust; the devious way in which he smiled, showing his rotted teeth, and his eyes that gleamed with malicious intent. John tensed and stood back from him - knowing that if he went with them now, he would not be coming back.

“I’ll be here when he comes home.” With that being the only thing John had to say to the offer, he opened the door fully for him to leave - Mycroft did not promise that Sherlock would definitely _not_ be coming home, but the look he gave as he left was a grim indication.


	20. Chapter 20

The following few days were very tense, to say the least. There was no word about Sherlock, whether he was alive or not, and John became paranoid. He realised quickly that there was a lot he did not know, for instance, whether or not a threshold invitation could expire, or be passed around amongst other vampires. From the hostility he received from Mycroft’s people, he did not want to take a chance.

With a spell of online shopping, John stocked up on some ‘protection’. Two crucifixes were kept in the flat - one in his bedroom, with other assorted religious artifacts, and the other was kept between some tea towels in a kitchen drawer. On his person, he wore the Holy Cross on a chain around his neck, tucked into his shirt. He took those days off from work, wanting to remain near home should Sherlock (or some news regarding Sherlock) come back to 221b.

On the fifth day, John had been sitting pensively, when he heard someone coming up the stairs. Immediately, he stood to grab the Bible from the coffee table. He tensely waited, facing the door with the book in-hand.

A woman entered the flat, looking quickly up from her Blackberry, before returning to the email she was sending. "Hello again. Mycroft has asked me to collect you."

The moment the door opened, John had thrust the Bible out and braced himself, remaining tense a moment after she spoke. With a fixed and cautious stare, he looked at her, and quickly registered her as being familiar - the brunette, from the night he first met Mycroft. Her name escaped him. “What does he want?” he asked.

"Well technically, it was Sherlock who requested you. His condition has improved to the point that Mycroft relented so he may have guests. The car will take you."

John ventured a question, “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

"You don't, but you're going to come anyway." She shifted on her feet, tapping into the phone as she spoke. "Sherlock asked for you, and Mycroft said he would allow it. The latter doesn't happen often. If you don't take this chance, you won't get another one. Bring the Bible, if it makes you feel better."

Slowly, John lowered the holy book and frowned slightly. Her whole demeanor was different to Mycroft’s other ‘people’, especially the two that had come to pick up Sherlock; no open disgust or hostility. In fact, she was entirely casual. “Not going to attack me, then?”

"I'm just here to collect you, John. Are you coming?"

Performing a quick cycle through his thoughts and considerations, John straightened up and gave a quiet nod. He kept the Bible in his hand.

"A crucifix would be more effective, if you’re going to attempt to ward one off. Really, Bible verses only work coming from a person of faith. None of it will do anything to Mycroft, but you might manage to stun the others temporarily." She remained still, her voice even and almost bored by the situation.

John paused, glancing from her down to the book in his hand; it could have been a useful warning, or a threat. All the same, a Bible might draw some unwanted attention. “Fine.” he said, though his somewhat frightened pallor suggested otherwise. Reluctantly, he put the book down and grabbed his coat, keeping firmly in mind the crucifix chain around his neck, hidden under his shirt.

Leaving the flat, one after the other, John followed Mycroft’s PA out into the street. Again, there was a black car waiting, most likely the same one that had picked Sherlock up days ago. With her head in her Blackberry, the woman walked around to the other side of the car and slid into the back seat. John, hesitantly, did the same. Once inside the car, he glanced around, and caught a glimpse of the driver’s sunglasses in the rear-view mirror.

The entire duration of the drive was spent in silence, save for the tiny tapping of thumb tips on a keypad. Remaining as subdued and distracted as possible, John sat stiffly and removed the chain from around his neck, holding it tightly in both hands, as though expecting either the PA or the driver to leap at him at any moment. Neither did, and after some initial faltering, John summoned the bravery to glance out of the window, when he realised the car was slowing to a stop.

He didn’t recognise the area, but was surprised to see that it seemed populated; John had always thought vampires liked to keep their affairs a bit more secluded. They pulled up outside a building that people were actively entering and exiting - holiday makers, by the looks of most of  them. Doormen, donning sunglasses, stood at the double-doored entrance and politely greeted the meandering people.

The car driver openly ignored John, choosing instead to open the door for Mycroft’s PA. She stepped out, nodding at the driver before waiting a few moments for John, then walked past the doormen. John followed.

Once inside, John remained behind the PA and glanced around over his shoulder, seeing a reception desk, and dark-suited employees talking with luggage-dragging people. As they approached an elevator, John leant towards her and asked in undertone, “What’s this?”

"This is a hotel, John," the woman replied, with a hint of a smile at one corner of her mouth. "Surely you've seen one before?"

“Run by vampires?”

She nodded, and picked up the pace as she walked, directing John towards the elevator. "Mycroft owns this hotel. The chain of hotels. It draws less attention than having to constantly buy and sell, or rent, small properties, and means he has subtle accommodations across the world."

Unsure what to make of that, John just inclined his head in acknowledgement and stopped, letting her press the button to summon the lift. He placed his hands behind his back, holding the small crucifix tightly in his palm, and glanced upward. “Don’t suppose you end up feeding on your guests, then?”

"They tend not to, because it would draw attention. Anyway, you've been specifically asked for by Sherlock - Mycroft will abide it, if only to keep Sherlock quiet. As a guest, if your safety was compromised, there would be consequences."

Flatly, John brought his glance down and stood in thought, until the elevator’s doors opened with a ‘ding’, and he followed the PA inside. “You’re not one of them?” he asked, pocketing the crucifix, but keeping his hand firmly around it.

"No. Mycroft keeps me on staff primarily to take care of the human side of his operations, and to keep the minions in line. I make things run smoothly. In return, he guarantees my safety. Twelfth floor, if you don't mind."

John’s brows rose up in astonishment, the setup being one he hadn’t at all considered - a human working for vampires, and somehow remaining untouchable amongst them. He made a little ‘oh’ sound, then leant forward to press the last button, which would take them up to the top floor. “That’s... wow,” he uttered, standing back beside her. “Didn’t think such a system was possible. So you’re completely human? Not... anything else?”

Sherlock’s earlier mentions of ghosts, witches and zombies rang in his head.

"Yes, just human. It's certainly not common, but Mycroft hardly ever is." After a brief moment of quiet, the elevator rode to a halt, the light 'ding' ringing out as the doors pulled open. One hand against the door panel to keep it open, she turned to John, meeting his eye briefly as she spoke. "They know what you are, and yes, they’re very prejudiced. However, Mycroft has promised that you will arrive and leave unharmed, just don’t do anything stupid."

Satisfied that the message was clear enough, she returned to her usual, distant facade; stepping out of the elevator, not waiting for John to follow before starting to walk down the hallway, knowing precisely where she was headed. John dithered a moment, as he considered what she said. He couldn’t say he was surprised; almost all of the ‘employees’ he had passed en route had given him such hateful scowls. They wanted to kill him, but weren’t allowed.

With that thought, he recalled what Sherlock told him - ‘vampires can tell lycans from humans on sight.’ The recollection made him clutch the cross in his hand that bit tighter.

They travelled a little way down a main corridor, before making a left turn. John remained behind the PA the whole way, carefully glancing about himself, until she halted at the last door and stood aside. John stopped as she did, taking a deep breath and raising his hand to the doorknob. He paused, looking to her a final time, “I forgot your name.”

“Anthea.” She offered a polite, yet dismissive, smile, before turning away, leaving him to open the door as she headed back towards the elevator. John glanced after her, a momentary smile of humour on his face, before he reached for the doorknob again - then stopped, remembering to knock first, as Sherlock always preferred. After a pause in between, he opened the door and entered on softly treading feet.

Sherlock was reclined in a large bed, apparently relaxing in grandeur in the opulent room. He looked over to the door with a sneer, until realising who it was, to which he became alert and raised himself on his arms, his expression brightening. “John! I didn’t think Mycroft would actually bring you.”

Gently closing the door, John paused a moment, looking at him. He was alive, much to John’s own relief, and the improvement was evident in his appearance. With a small smile, John started to walk towards Sherlock’s bed, stopping briefly at an antiquated dressing table to put the crucifix down. “Me either,” he quietly said, approaching and stopping at Sherlock’s bedside. “You look so much better.”

Sherlock nodded slightly in affirmation, humming in additional acknowledgement. “Apparently they weren’t sure, for a while. I suppose I have to be grateful to him, now.” Sherlock made a distasteful sound, his face scrunching up as if hit by a bad smell.

Giving a little nod, John took in a shallow breath and felt his shoulders begin to tense, as that old sense of shame returned. He was immensely relieved, but at the same time, he vividly remembered who put Sherlock in such a condition in the first place. “Sherlock,” he said, voice heavy with guilt. “I’m so sorry. If I’d thought, for just one second... I never would have... “

“I know,” Sherlock said. “I’ll admit that I didn’t know either.”

With another nod, John knelt down at his bedside, placing his elbows on the surface of the bed. He sniffled, stirred, but not quite crying. “Mycroft’s convinced I did it on purpose.”

“He would. Vampires and werewolves have been slaughtering each other for centuries. Metaphorically, in his eyes at least, I’m to replace him in his... political capacity, if he’s killed. A personal attack against someone like him, through me? He’ll be quite convinced that it was an assassination attempt.”

At the reasoning, John’s shoulders slumped and his chin lowered towards his chest; he knew it looked bad, and he knew what Mycroft thought. Subconsciously looking for a distraction, he glanced across the expanse of the room; dated in taste, but kept incredibly clean. His eyes soon fell on a decanter, standing on an electronic warming plate - something John had seen advertised in the Argos catalogue to keep milk warm, but what was in the jug... clearly wasn’t milk. “They’ve been keeping you fed, then.”


	21. Chapter 21

Sherlock followed his gaze, nodding subtly. "They had to. Recovery is tumultuous at best, and rather specific. I wouldn't have recovered if I hadn’t fed."

John, who had closed his eyes, in addition to rubbing his forehead, could have suspected that much - Sherlock was a vampire, blood was medicine as well as sustenance. A severe setback in terms of getting clean, and John was responsible for whoever’s blood was in that decanter. He stared at it dejectedly, feeling a deep pang in his conscience for creating the whole sorry mess. He should never have made the suggestion in the first place.

There was a sudden silence, broken by John when he reached forward and took Sherlock’s hand; heavy with feeling, but his eyes were shuttered, and his face carefully blank. “I... thought I’d killed you.”

Sherlock went quiet for a moment, not glancing down at John’s hand clasping his own but he responded subtly, a gentle squeeze with his fingers, to show he accepted the … sweetness, of the gesture. “I should have known, but the act of a lycan offering himself to a vampire is so novel. Your kind is very capable of killing us, but normally with brute strength. Not seduction.”

There was a pause in conversation, where Sherlock decided to sway the subject, "Mycroft's physician said there'll be no lasting ramifications. I'll be here for another day or so on this blood, then I can go home."

John’s face scrunched up a little, before he commented, “It smells different.”

Sherlock looked up, following John's line of thought until his gaze fell upon the decanter once more. "Only certain blood is strong enough to heal something this damaging. A forty-something alcoholic or street-corner prostitute doesn’t really make the grade."

Though the comment had been initially passive, John breathed slowly and deeply; now that he had the scent, he was unable to let it go. He knew what Sherlock’s ‘usual’ smelt like - tinny, slightly sour and thoroughly unpleasant to John’s sense. This, while in the same element, had a distinct, cloying smell to it; a sweetness to it. It was distracting, and becoming stronger to John’s sensitive nose the longer he inhaled it. “It’s... I don’t know, syrupy.” He was then momentarily taken aback as he caught up, breaking away from the scented trail. “Wait, ‘certain blood’? What does that mean?”

"It's purer." Sherlock replied with relative ease, although an element of tension was building.

“So they medicate it, purify it somehow? Like with water?”

"No." Sherlock took a short breath, shifting his position on the bed. "John, you probably want to stop asking about it now."

Expression alight, John asked, “Why? You’ve never been shy talking about blood before.”

Sherlock shook his head again. "No. Answers don't always make things better, John. I'm not dead or dying, can we focus on that?"

John paused, fingers going stiff around Sherlock’s hand. “Sherlock, you’re scaring me now. What’s so horrible that you can’t tell me?”

With a grimace, Sherlock turned his face away slightly, knowing all too well how drastically the scene would change once John was aware. "The older blood is, the more contaminated it becomes. Food, pollution, drugs, disease. Lifestyle plays a part, obviously. A healthy fifty year old will have cleaner blood than a twenty-five year old heroin addict. But a lot of it is unavoidable, and simply being alive will taint the blood. The longer you live, the greater the degree of contamination. The inverse applies. Younger blood is purer."

“Younger... “ Abruptly, John felt a tightness curl in his throat. “How young?”

"I told you, you don't want to know." Sherlock's face hardened slightly, noticing the growing pressure of John's hand firmly gripping around his. "Leave it be, John."

“I can’t.” John harshly uttered back, almost in a fiery whisper. Under the room lights, every haggard line was mapped across his forehead, and in every groove in his cheeks, twisting at the corners of his nervous lips. “I can’t because I did this... if that’s... please don’t tell me that’s..."

"You didn’t kill them, John. It was unforeseeable."

At the confirmation, John sucked in another wrenched breath and withdrew his hand, letting it cover his face with the other. There was a long silence, as John sat and silently began to mourn. When he removed his hands from his face, they shook, and the tremors quickly spread to his shoulders. “They were kids. Innocent kids.”

"The oldest was nearly two. Mycroft made the decision that my life was worth more than theirs."

As the information poured out, John cast another glance at the decanter - filled with blood, children’s blood; he stared with muted horror, feeling his face drain and his breath still. When he couldn’t stand looking at it any longer, he buried his face back into his hands, and when he released his breath, it sounded like a sob.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said after a few moments of quiet. "There was no choice."

It took every unit of strength to look up again, and when he did, it was with a thoroughly broken expression. John didn’t want to open his mouth, as he didn’t know what would come out; his chin twitched as he tried.

"John, listen to me. This isn’t your fault." Sherlock said sharply, his irritation cutting through the silence as John's guilt forced home his own participation.

“Never is my fault, is it?” John grimly muttered, his voice hoarse despite having said very little since the admission. He shook his head with a look of disgust, passing a hand over his flushed face. “We’re monsters.”

There was nothing Sherlock could say to refute that claim, in all honesty. He thought for a moment, but shortly gave up, just nodding instead. "We are, yes. John, there was no other option if I was to live. The correct precautions were taken, media cover-up has been prepared. The children were chosen carefully, from redundant or broken households that couldn’t possibly afford a decent lawyer or private detective... "

“And that just makes it okay? For god’s sake, they were kids. Babies.” John said, low, between ragged breaths, looking down at his hands as though he literally hated them. After a moment, he abruptly closed them, fingernails digging into his palms. As he looked on into some middle-distance, John’s eyes grew darker. “How... how could Mycroft do that, make that choice?”

Sherlock stiffened, his mouth tightening into a thin line. "If you feel so badly about it, then go home."

Abashed, John’s eyes shot to him. “You really don’t care? You get to live forever and they... they,” he pointedly flared towards the decanter, but refused to look at it again. “They didn’t even get to see three years old.”

"If they hadn’t died, I would have," Sherlock countered sharply. "You really don't care?"

The expression of John’s face became, for the moment, unreadable; becoming blank, as he considered what Sherlock was getting at. He then quietly groaned and scrubbed his hand over his face in a gesture of frustration. “Of course I care.”

"You just would have preferred..." Sherlock stopped himself, huffing out a short breath of air. "Go home, John."

Looking at him for a long, final moment, he suddenly stood, practically growling out, “Sod this. Sod this.” Yanking his coat up, he closed his hand over his nose, trying to shut out the damn smell, filling the room like honeyed fumes. He proceeded in a fierce march towards the door, stopping only to grab the crucifix from the counter.

When John opened the door, Mycroft was waiting, standing a little off-centre from the door frame. John halted for a moment, his eyes locking with a menacing blue gaze that burned into his own. Without word, he grunted and shoved his way past the vampire, who turned with raised eyebrows, looking on with a cold, self-righteous smile across his face, watching John until he'd turned down the hallway and disappeared out of sight.

Mycroft then made his way into the room, his expression unreadable, as usual, but his posture was upright, verging on proud.

"I see the dog has run back to his kennel."

Sherlock, flustered and red-eyed from the raw conversation, scowled. "Why didn't you warn me that he was coming?"

"I thought it might be a nice surprise for you." Mycroft replied, a slight sarcastic smirk dragging at one corner of his mouth.

"Yes, well thanks to your 'surprise', he knows what I've been drinking since I got here."

"I didn't think he'd have such a weak composition as to be bothered by it," Mycroft said lightly. “A doctor as well as a lycan, you would think he had a certain resilience.”

"Oh, don't pretend, Mycroft. He might be a lycan but he has morals, and unsurprisingly, doesn't look fondly on those who kill newborn children."

"He knows why, though, does he not? Without it..."

"Yes, he knows why."

"And he still deems it bad?"

"Apparently."

"Interesting."

"... What is it, Mycroft?"

"Oh, nothing. Just a little odd that your amour du jour poisoned you, and then was... upset when you recovered."

"He's upset at the method, Mycroft, not that I was saved"

The room fell quiet as they looked at each other, Sherlock stubborn to the point of petulance and Mycroft effortlessly maintaining his stoic air, letting time pass so that his next words would sink in and fester.

"How certain are you of that, I wonder?"


	22. A new friend - interlude.

There was a moment of perfect stillness as John crouched against a tree trunk, kneading his hands nervously over the top of his bent knees, followed by a small, slow sob that managed to crawl out from his throat.

After leaving Mycroft's hotel (just barely, the other vampires had been more keen to tauntingly nip at him without 'Anthea' around), John did not go straight home. The next full moon was only days away, and he could not predict how feral he could become in the days leading up to, especially after the heated exchange at Sherlock's bedside. Not wanting to frighten their landlady, or destroy the furniture, he took a bus detour to Highgate Wood and strayed far, far away from the pedestrian path.

There had been shouting, tears, fits of anger, a dizzying whirl as John thrashed his limbs; hitting, scratching and kicking trees and plants as he encountered them. His knuckles bled and his jaw and feet felt bruised, but they would heal, they always did - at a preternaturally accelerated rate (‘regeneration’, Sherlock had called it, a trait exclusive to lycans.) The slits on his neck, from the vampire's deep bite, had completely healed in only a day without so much as an afterbruise.  
With the mania passed and his body spent of energy, John sat for a long while, just thinking; the perished children, their mourning families, the fragility of human life, and the monsters that lurked amongst them, ready to snatch it away in a heartbeat - John included. After all, he had been the army's weapon, kept underground; an animal to be contained, rather than a fellow soldier. As soon as the full moon rose over Afghanistan, he was let out, and that was when the body count really racked up. Whole platoons, whole villages... devastated.

By a monster in the night.

Then there was Sherlock, his best friend, who very almost joined the list of John's dead. John never wanted to alienate him, and the more he replayed his reaction in his head, the more he came to understand why Sherlock ordered him away. All they had was each other now, they needed each other. John definitely needed Sherlock, anyway. He loved him.  
Then he remembered, that was a stupid word to use.

"Doctor Watson."

John peeked out from the nest of his arms, feeling a wetness cling on his eyelashes. He hadn't realised that he had been crying. A man, half-hidden in shadows, stood before him; he spoke again, his voice low and calm. "You're a difficult man to get on your own."

With a flinch, John shot to his feet and bowed his head for a moment, thumbing underneath his eyes with a shaking left hand. Before he could speak, the stranger raised his hand in reassurance and took a small step forward, into the light. "It's alright, doctor. My name is Archer, I'm your friend."

Hand lowered, John rose a frown at him. Whenever someone introduced themselves as 'a friend', they ended up being the polar opposite. "Have we met?" He asked; he knew they hadn't, but he needed to say something.  
"No. Consider this our meeting."

John looked at this 'Archer', fixing him with an analytical look; he didn't look immediately 'friendly', shrouded in dark colours and a bulky leather jacket, posture closed-off, hands in his pockets. Under the wash of the gibbous moon, he looked quite pale, with a stubbled jawline, deep frown lines on his brow and shadows under his eyes. Despite the standoffish bearing, he managed to hold himself with a certain level of charm, and his smile never wavered.  
"What do you want?"

"There's no need for hostility, John." Archer said, quickly dropping the formalities. "Like I said, I'm your friend. We've actually had a hard time trying to get hold of you. You're always with the vampire, and we'd rather not draw that kind of attention," he grinned, then tugged his sleeve up, revealing a slightly faded, but still very angry looking set of scars; claw scars, that had been dragged down the skin of his arm years prior. "I'm like you."

John's eyes fell, aware that he was under the silvery stare of the man, and he simply stated, "You're a werewolf."

"Like you." Archer repeated; his smile twitched upward slightly, as he withdrew his arm and tucked his hand back into his pocket. "There's others too, here in London. It's not all dog-eat-dog with us, John. We can look out for each other. I founded this territory's pack for that reason."

"There's... packs?" John awkwardly ventured, to which the man solemnly shook his head.

"Not everywhere, it's a new development." he explained. "We shouldn’t have to wander, alone and vulnerable as vampires pick us off when we can’t defend ourselves against them. Cowards, all of them. They wouldn’t have the bottle to go against us on a full moon."

Sensing the increasing bitterness in his tone, John swallowed and watched him carefully. By now, he was very much aware of the animosity that vampires held towards werewolves. Apparently, the feeling was mutual.

Archer continued, "A pack isn't nearly what you might think. We don't live in the woods and hunt for our meals," he tilted his head and gave a slight smile of humour. "No, we're a... support network, if you like. We go out, have a drink, watch the football, share our experiences, watch each other's backs. I'm worried about you, John. You live with one of those… bloodsucking demons."

"You don't know a thing about us." John shot back. “And I don’t appreciate being stalked.”

Archer's expression faltered slightly, eyes raking over John with a fiercer solemnity, "Your vampire will turn against you. They don't want companionship, let alone from something they can't feed from. All they care about is blood, and you will die finding that out. We're here, John. Let us be there for you." He took out a small white card from his pocket, holding it out to John between his finger and thumb. "I want to invite you into the pack."

John was just as fierce, resisting him with a shake of his head. "Don't bother. I'm not interested in joining your war."

"I'm sorry John, but you’re already in it. It's time to choose a side."


End file.
